


Clowns To The Left Of Me, Jokers To The Right

by wtfkovah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Bank Robbery, Big Gay Mobsters, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gangsters, Guns, Heist, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Past Abuse, Rough Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: The heist fails spectacularly, but it's not Jeonghan's poor planning.It all starts when Wonwoo picks up a stranger at a bar.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon, Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Yoon Jeonghan, Jeon Wonwoo/Kim Mingyu, Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi/Lee Seokmin | DK, Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 71
Kudos: 285





	1. Well I don't know why I came here tonight

**Author's Note:**

> REUPLOAD  
> Since I started writing this fic, back in 2018, there has been some lovely fanart, movie posters and edits I would like to draw your attention to :))  
> [Awesome Movie Poster by Janna](https://twitter.com/xparksjx/status/1061276344363831298?s=20)  
> [Movie Poster by Luna that I love so much](https://twitter.com/LunaSolis1019/status/1097890396724703232?s=20)  
> [Movie poster edit by Luna](https://twitter.com/LunaSolis1019/status/1097897133041221632?s=20)  
> [Fic Icon my Luna](https://twitter.com/LunaSolis1019/status/1221358351801634817?s=20)  
> [Amazing art by Cel, but spoiler warning for later chapters](https://twitter.com/keunikka/status/1271094897362141184?s=20)
> 
> Playlist: Chapter 1  
> [Stuck in the middle with you-Stealers Wheel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ln7Vn_WKkWU)  
> [Holy Calamity (Bear Witness II)-Handsome Boy Modeling School- ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVrfaZos0OY)

Wonwoo tries to pick a different bar each time, because the last thing he needs is to be recognized or remembered. God forbid one of the crew finding out _this_ is how he chooses to release tension the night before a big job.

So, tonight’s bar is almost a hundred blocks away from his apartment; a small, sleazy dive of a place with a neon sign missing half of its letters and a man spewing his guts out right at the front door. The interior, as it turns out, is no more impressive than the exterior; the bar is overly smoky and dimly-lit, and there's a general air of seediness hanging around.

Wonwoo draws a few gazes from the patrons as he leaves the shelter of the doorway to approach the bar and subtly appraises them in return, gauging age and potential, and can’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment.

It’s already peak hour and the current crowd is _not_ promising. They're mostly older guys; soft, pretentious men in their late forties who all watch him with the same pathetic combination of desperation and hopefulness because the days are long gone when they could have hooked up with something as young and attractive as him.

Not exactly the type he had in mind when he set out tonight, but seeing as he’s here now, he might as well lower his standards.

Taking a seat at the bar, he orders a beer and pays for two upfront; he’ll need at least one before he starts feeling less bothered by the atmosphere of the place, like its grubbiness isn’t clinging to him, and he’ll probably be on his second before he summons the nerve to actually start a conversation with someone. Paying for them upfront will hopefully limit his consumption, he reasons, because even though he wants to take the edge off, he needs to stay lucid—for _tomorrow._

He's on his second beer when a stranger drops onto the stool at his side and drawls, “Did you know, a study on bar peanuts revealed they contain twenty-seven different types of urine?”

Wonwoo frowns and glances at the bowl of peanuts he has been steadily munching through. 

As far as pick-up lines go—Wonwoo has had better. A lot better.

In fact, he’s not even sure that _counts_ as a pick-up line.

If anything, it feels like the guy is _judging_ him for indulging in bar peanuts.

Wonwoo yanks his hand out of the bowl and wipes the salt grains on his jeans. “That’s fucking gross—why the _hell_ are you telling me this?”

There’s a quiet snort from next to him, though he doesn’t indulge the stranger by glancing over.

“You seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t appreciate one of those cliché pick-up lines people usually try. So, I thought I’d _improvise_.” The man offers mildly.

Without waiting for Wonwoo to respond, the man leans in closer, until Wonwoo can smell the fading traces of his cologne and almost feel the scratch of stubble against his cheek. “But, on the off chance that you _do_ like cliché pick-up lines....You must be tired. Because you've been running through my head all night.”

Wonwoo sighs expansively to convey just how very unimpressed he is with that.

Deflating, the man leans back and clears his throat awkwardly. "Okay, that was bad. But I have others!"

“Look,” Wonwoo begins stiffly, staring intently at his beer, because there is nothing more embarrassing than explaining to someone how he’d much rather skip the pleasantries and get down to business. “I didn't come here to chat. I didn't come to get to know you or get into a relationship. All I want is one stupid, meaningless fuck to take my mind of something. So unless you can help me with that, leave me alone.”

The man gives a startled laugh, seemingly taken aback by Wonwoo's bluntness.

“Well,” he says, after a pause, amusement rounding the edges of his voice, “I can _definitely_ help you with that.”

Wonwoo turns his head to take his first look at this joker and is pleasantly surprised to find his brand of trouble has arrived in the form of a tall, well-built brunette, with nicely muscled arms and a sharp jaw. He’s Wonwoo’s age, or thereabouts, though he carries himself more assuredly—brow quirking expectantly as he stares back with dark brown eyes and a quick smile.

Physically, there’s no denying that he’s very appealing, though perhaps he’s a little _too_ good-looking for Wonwoo’s comfort.

_A guy this hot will be hard to forget—_ Wonwoo thinks, as his bitter sense of self-preservation wages war with his starving sex drive.

He hesitates, toying with his beer bottle, caught in the clutches of thrill and fear, and even considers turning the guy down for a moment. Then the man runs the back of one knuckle down the fly of his jeans and Wonwoo gasps and sits upright.

It isn't a particularly assertive caress, more like a tease, a prelude. But it still lances through him, leaving him shaking and needy.

Coming to a decision, Wonwoo drains the last of his beer from the bottle and licks his lips. “You got a place?”

Smiling broadly, the stranger gets to his feet and slings an arm around Wonwoo's shoulder, making him bristle. “Yup. Just a short, five-minute walk from here actually.”

“Fine.” Wonwoo shrugs, sets his bottle down on the bar, and gets up. “Let's go.”

* * *

“So, what’s your name?”

Wonwoo crams his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, ducks his chin down.

Tall+Handsome’s place is five minutes away from the bar. Wonwoo keeps telling him they don't need to talk. Tall+Handsome clearly likes to _ignore_ him.

“Hmm, okay, I’m good at guessing actually,” says Tall+Handsome, evidently interpreting Wonwoo's silence as a challenge. “You strike me as the dark, brooding type. And the black leather biker jacket and biker boots demand a strong name. Something tough and a _little_ shady—like Wonho, or Won-bin.”

“Close, but no cigar,” says Wonwoo, acerbic as always. “Try again.”

Tall+Handsome makes a thoughtful humming noise, tapping a finger against his chin. “Close eh? Okay, what about—Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo huffs into cold night air, using his breath to warm his face. “Lucky guess."

Tall+Handsome inclines his head coolly. “Yes, perhaps you’re right—Jeon Wonwoo from Changwon, twenty-six years old. Tell me, do you still drive a Kawasaki W650?”

Wonwoo freezes mid stride, feeling strangely outmanoeuvred. That doesn't happen often.

He snaps his head to look at the man standing next to him—a man who suddenly knows too much to be just some stranger in a bar.

“How the hell did you—"

Tall+Handsome interrupts his question by handing him a card.

Wonwoo takes it in spite of himself, and it takes him several seconds to realize he's looking at his _own_ driving licence. The first line of his address and his date of birth is printed crisply under his own name.

He blinks in shock. “What the-”

Tall+Handsome interrupts that by handing over Wonwoo's wallet next.

Wonwoo flushes angrily as he snatches it back. He says nothing for a long minute as he stares the stranger down, feeling an odd mixture of hostile and aroused. 

It’s because he’s surprised, he tells himself. He hates surprises.

“You son of a bitch.” Wonwoo snaps finally, squaring his shoulders, “When did you steal my wallet?”

“At the bar, when you were still deciding whether to come home with me.” says Tall+Handsome modestly. “Don’t worry—the $45 dollars and five-year-old cinema ticket stub are still in there. I’m not actually a thief or anything, it’s just a little hobby I picked up when I was a kid. A neat parlour trick that some people find _charming_.” He looks at Wonwoo sidelong, the first glimmer of hesitation appearing in his expression. “Did—did you find it charming?”

Wonwoo flounders for a moment. If he’d been at full mental capacity, he would have had some sharply-barbed comeback for that; though, truthfully, he did find it a _little_ charming.

Just a tad.

In spite of himself, Wonwoo laughs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “Yeah, not bad. Nobody has ever pickpocketed me before, uhm—” He trails off, gesturing at the man vaguely.

“Mingyu.” Tall+Handsome offers, grinning toothily, “Kim Mingyu.”

* * *

“Mi casa es su casa.” Mingyu says, flipping on the living room light as they enter, revealing a tastefully decorated apartment and a view of the Han river that is a world away from the dive they’d met in.

Whatever he does for a living, and Wonwoo resolves _not_ to ask, he’s clearly paid well. A space in a serviced apartment block of this kind would set someone back a fair bit, and Mingyu’s got the penthouse suite, so he can’t be hurting for money.

“Would you like the tour? Or maybe something to drink? I could rustle us up some urine free peanuts.” Mingyu says next, winking and somehow making the simplest stupidest shit sound cute.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes and starts toeing off his boots. “Cheap parlour tricks aside—I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk.”

Mingyu frowns, but readily follows his example and kicks off his own shoes, starts shrugging out of his jacket.

Once they're in the bedroom Wonwoo expects the silence to reign, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. But almost immediately Mingyu is there, taking Wonwoo by the wrists, pulling his hands away and starting to undo the shirt himself.

His fingers are deft and nimble and he strips Wonwoo in record time, Wonwoo barely keeping up fast enough to unbuckle his belt and slide it out of his loops.

With Wonwoo’s shirt gone, Mingyu smooths a palm down his chest appreciatively.

“I just wanted a drink, you know. I wasn’t planning on picking anyone up tonight. But when I saw you sitting at the bar—I couldn’t help myself. You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs, moving to press his mouth against Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo angles away from the kiss.

“I don’t do that,” he tells Mingyu, as the other man’s lips skid against his chin.

“M’kay,” Mingyu mumbles, mouthing at the bend of Wonwoo’s jaw, “No talking _and_ no kissing. You’re just a big ball of fun, huh?”

“You approached me,” Wonwoo reminds him sharply, pushing away and sitting on the edge of the bed so he can pull off his jeans and socks together. “And I told you I didn’t want conversation. I’d rather you just….can we just fuck?"

Mingyu’s eyes darken at the suggestion, but he nods amiably. “Sure.”

Once he's naked, Wonwoo flops back onto the bed and watches Mingyu strip off, revealing tanned flesh and an array of intimidating muscles. It sends a shiver of _something_ through his stomach. Trepidation. Fear. Desire. He isn't sure. Probably all three.

He rolls onto all fours before Mingyu starts unbuckling his pants, because he doesn't want to look at Mingyu's cock in case it makes the immediacy of this moment too real for him. He just wants it inside him.

He half-watches while Mingyu pulls open the bedside table drawer and fishes for a condom, then listens to him tear it open and roll it on. He hears the snap of a cap of lube and swallows, shuffling his knees further apart, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation.

His bare ass registers a quick squeeze of Mingyu's hand, and then—without warning or prep—something blunt and slick nudges at his entrance; Mingyu pushing the head of his cock into him, wedging past the tight rim of his ass, sliding deep too quickly.

“Oh, fuck!” Wonwoo hisses, hands screwing into the covers, bucking a little instinctively in a vain attempt to throw Mingyu off. “You fucking jerk. You didn't even--”

He has to break off with a shattered gasp when the intrusion keeps coming, as Mingyu shoves himself in deeper until the entire length is seated inside him, stretching him before he's ready.

“I thought you said no talking,” Mingyu’s murmurs against his temple, sounding amused at the quivering mess he's immediately reduced Wonwoo to. Then Mingyu _moves_. Just a roll of his hips at first, jostling his cock where it's buried in Wonwoo's body. He draws back a moment later—draws almost all the way out—before slamming his hips forward so hard the entire bed shakes.

Wonwoo squeezes his eyes shut, dropping his face against the mattress and clenching his jaw around a fractured sob.

It takes every scrap of willpower he possesses to keep silent in that moment. He wants this too desperately to put up resistance now, so he braces himself to just take it, to stick to their agreement and keep his own mouth shut, stifling a grunt—pain and pleasure both—as Mingyu repeats the manoeuvre. Filling him, fucking him, jolting him hard against the mattress.

It _is_ what he asked for after all.

But _keeping_ his mouth shut is proving more difficult with each thrust. Mingyu’s dick is too huge to be ignored—it’s bigger than any of Wonwoo's partners thus far, almost too much for him to handle, especially without any preparation or warning. Part of him wants to say _stop_ , because there is a fever moving through him, an agony of too much sensation tearing him apart, but most of him just wants to scream for more because this is so exactly what he needs right now. He needs to be used and bruised and just _fucked_.

Then Mingyu angles his hips just so as he draws out, dragging his cock along Wonwoo's prostate, and any hope of actually _keeping_ quiet goes to the wayside as he nails it on the next brutal thrust.

Wonwoo _keens_ into the bed sheets, the fight bleeding out of him. “Ah—fuck, fuck—Mingyu, _please_.”

“Oh, what’s that? We talking now?” Mingyu laughs and leans forward without slowing his rhythm. Wonwoo groans at the sudden extra weight along his back, and at Mingyu's hot breath teasing the shell of his ear with an unexpected observation. “You want me to slow down?”

Wonwoo chokes a shattered laugh and tosses his head in denial. “No— _harder_.”

Mingyu’s rhythm falters, nearly stopping altogether, obviously a little surprised at the request. But his hesitation doesn’t last long—he’s back on his game in no time, slowness melting away and he begins moving with even more merciless purpose. 

The pace Mingyu sets is fast and rough, and his hands wrapped around either side of Wonwoo's waist squeeze tightly with every thrust, leaving deep scores from his nails on Wonwoo's stomach.

And Wonwoo loves every second of it, he does. Loves just letting go and being debased and filthy like this. It’s all entirely new and sublime and revelationary—like a part of himself long dormant has finally decided to make itself known.

He gasps at an especially harsh thrust and lets his head loll back onto Mingyu's shoulder, feeling the man’s breath wild and fast against his neck. “Mingyu, do you think you can—" He asks while he still can, all on a rush of breath. 

He's not sure what he intends to say, but just then Mingyu, who had been outlining his left shoulder blade with kisses, fastens his teeth in the junction between his neck and shoulder and bites down hard.

Immediately Wonwoo is making this feeble whining sound, which just encourages Mingyu to bite _harder_.

It hurts like hell—but when Mingyu lets go, the sudden release of pressure feels amazing, and the scrape of stubble over his shoulder as Mingyu nuzzles into the bruise roughly makes Wonwoo shudder.

For some reason it's right then that Wonwoo has this stupid thought – _I'm being fucked by some stranger I just picked up. Some stranger who could seriously hurt me_ – and as profoundly disconcerting as that is, he is still completely, blindingly hard.

Amazingly, the fear hasn't taken the edge off his arousal. If anything, it has intensified it.

At once, he braces his weight on one arm and wraps his other hand around his dick to stroke himself. He can't believe how good he feels like this. Head-to-toe, his arousal is a desperate thrum of energy, spreading along every nerve, but nowhere more than where he and Mingyu are joined.

“Mingyu, faster,” he hears himself rasp.

In response, Mingyu snorts a laugh and shoves down on Wonwoo right between the shoulder blades. Wonwoo’s trembling arm buckles and he lands awkwardly on his shoulder before Mingyu re-positions him so that he's flat on his chest, ass in the air.

Irritated, Wonwoo moves to plant his hand in the mattress and prop himself up again, but Mingyu captures his wrist in one hand and squeezes hard. When Wonwoo stills—snarling at the humiliating position, but compliant—Mingyu brings both hands to his ass cheeks and grips tight enough to leave welts, spreading them further apart so he can cram his dick deeper.

Wonwoo groans deeply, feeling like he's being split in half—sobs a second later when that relentless cock rams into him even harder and Mingyu plasters himself all along his back to whisper, “Good boy,” in his ear, before resuming his bruising rhythm.

Biting his lip to stifle a whimper, Wonwoo turns his face into the mattress. His eyes are watering, pain and arousal heightened by an ecstatic shiver of humiliation. He's never had sex like this before – where his partner just _takes him_ , forcing him into a complete surrender, where all he can do is jerk himself off in quick, unsteady movements, spread his knees even more and rock helplessly back into Mingyu's thrusts, like a cock-hungry slut. But the sheer mass of Mingyu’s body hems him in, overwhelms him, makes it seem like the rest of the world is diminished, that this _is_ his world now.

He knows he's close when he hears himself groaning out random fricatives, pleading mindlessly. Mingyu must know it too, because suddenly he shifts angle, smacks Wonwoo’s hand off his cock to curl his own around it instead. The circle of fingers is the exact firmness to work Wonwoo into a renewed frenzy, and he sobs at the stimulation, at the promise of orgasm.

Whimpering, he thrusts into the tight circle of Mingyu's grip, pleasure mounting fast and sudden, ricocheting inside him. He can feel it now, he's so close—

Mingyu's grip tightens painfully as he gives a stroke over his entire length, and that's it—Wonwoo can’t take a second more. He comes, spilling hotly all over Mingyu's hand and the sheets, muffling his gasps into the pillow so that he almost suffocates himself. The pleasure and pain mingle and crescendo, and his release is so intense he almost blacks out.

Mingyu hasn't finished yet though, he's is still pounding into him and all Wonwoo can do is writhe senselessly and groan until Mingyu screws into him in a final, vicious thrust that forces the full length of his cock as deep as physically possible.

Wonwoo groans at the jerk and throb of heat through the condom inside him, grateful for the pillow stuffed into his mouth, because surely the whole apartment block would have heard him otherwise.

They cling to each other in shivering stillness during the quiet that follows. Mingyu’s breath steadies out slowly, hot over Wonwoo's skin. Several seconds pass before he at last draws back, and Wonwoo's abused hole is finally allowed to clench and then relax.

Wonwoo stretches out flat on his stomach and catches his breath, feeling Mingyu’s heat move away from him as his heart slows from its frantic, stuttered pace. Then turns over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

A moment later, Mingyu hits the mattress at his side, sighing happily and equally dripping in sweat.

Wonwoo steals a covert glance at him as he peels the condom off and ties it, noting the streak of blood on it without remorse.

“Ouch,” Mingyu murmurs with a tinge of awe. “Uh, was I too rough?” He asks, flicking the condom away carelessly, _presumably_ in the direction of a trash can.

Wonwoo shakes his head, even though he’s vividly aware of the deep-seated pain throbbing with every heartbeat. Yeah, his ass _is_ sore as hell, and he’ll probably be feeling this for days, but that was….that was…

Probably the best sex he’s ever had?

Yeah— _definitely_.

Mingyu barks an incredulous, almost playful laugh, and Wonwoo realises he’s spoken out loud.

He doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about it though.

This is _usually_ the worst part of the night, when his mind clicks back into action and he has to contemplate what he’s done, how he’s going to have to get up in a few minutes and drag his clothes back on, hopefully leave without saying a word. But right now, he can’t bring himself to worry about any of that.

He feels like he's fucking floating, all his limbs are so light and his mind so blissfully blank. For the first time in a long while he actually feels good, and he allows himself a moment ease down, willing himself not to fall asleep….

* * *

Wonwoo eyes snap open at the sound of something unnerving, something you don’t expect to hear when you’re curled up sleeping in your bed, when you live alone and make a point of never inviting anyone back: the sound of a flushing the toilet. 

He’s momentarily disoriented as he drags himself upright, but quick to get his bearings. It's still dark outside the window, though a faint glow casts gold across the room from the lamp on the bedside table, enough for him to see the edges of a very unfamiliar room.

Just as he’s about to start panicking outright, the light in the hallway flickers on and a broad shape fills the doorway.

“Oh, hey—” Mingyu smiles sheepishly, “Didn't mean to wake you, sorry.”

“What, when did—” Wonwoo squints in the dark, and suddenly the words sink in.

He fucking fell asleep. In Mingyu's apartment, _in Mingyu's bed_. A perfect stranger.

“Fuck, fuck,” Wonwoo chants, twisting around in the sheets. “Fuck, where's your—Mingyu, what's the fucking time!?”

Mingyu quirks an eyebrow at him, plucks something off the floor and throws it at Wonwoo before moving to the other side of the bed.

Wonwoo fumbles with it in the dark. A cellphone. It flashes the time brightly when he flips it open: _5:23am_

“Aw—shit!” Wonwoo huffs, frustrated. He nearly falls out of bed, miscalculating his ability to move his lower body, on his way to locate his clothing. “Fuck, fuck, _shit_ , why did you let me fall asleep, asshole!”

“Uhm, because you seemed so tired after our mind blowing sex.” Mingyu shrugs affably. “Thought you could use the rest. Besides, what do you have to be up so early for?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Wonwoo snaps, not looking at Mingyu. He gathers his shaky limbs and stands up, scrambling around, dressing as quickly as he possibly can in the dark. “I have important shit to do today. Life changing shit. I've got shit to plan, I, _fuck_ —”

“Relax—it’s still early. Just come back to bed.” Mingyu says, crawling back into bed with a shuddering yawn. He taps the empty space next to him and for one surreal second, Wonwoo wants to join him.

He _wants_ to crawl back under the covers where it's warm and go back to sleep and not have to think about the hundred or so blocks between him and his own apartment, how cold it is outside or the job he’s pulling later today.

But he wasn’t kidding—this _is_ life changing shit. It’s too late to back out now.

As soon as his clothes are on and he looks halfway presentable, he grabs his jacket and limps into the hallway with all his muscles still protesting.

“Wait—aren’t you going to give me your number?” Mingyu calls after him sleepily.

“No.” Wonwoo snarls, before he slams the front door behind him.

* * *

Wonwoo’s role is simple.

He’s a distraction.

Modern banking methods means that very little money is actually stored on the bank floor. The real payload is stored out back, behind walls and walls of concrete and steel and if they’re every going to get it, they _need_ a distraction. So half the team’s job is to create enough of a ruckus front of shop, that security is too preoccupied to notice the small timed explosion happening a floor below.

That’s Jeonghan’s poorly devised plan anyway. And Jeonghan’s overseeing it all from the corner of the lobby where he’s _pretending_ to open a checking account.

As planned, Wonwoo sticks to the periphery of the room until the clock strikes 13:00, where he eventually shuffles into line at one of the banking kiosks.

There’s half a dozen people standing in front of him, and in five minutes—if everything continues to go as planned, Jeonghan will give the signal and Wonwoo and Minghao can get to work. 

Four minutes—and Wonwoo barely has the energy to lift his feet as he shuffles further in the queue.

It’s fair to say he shouldn’t have gone out last night: he’s goggle-eyed from exhaustion and still feeling the ache in his ass and the throbbing of scraped skin over his hips from the night before.

It’s a small miracle he made it back to his apartment for a quick change before catching up with the others at the rendezvous spot, but back then he’d been running on anger, adrenaline and a shit ton of sugar from the subway vending machines, and now that he’s _here_ , he’s running on empty and really starting to feel it. So much so, the cold marble bench in the lobby is looking mighty inviting—as does the floor, and you just _know_ you look like shit when even the little old ladies start holding doors open and letting you jump the queue.

He’s honestly surprised the other guys didn’t call him up on it earlier, because he knows he'd been pretty distracted during their last meeting; fidgeting, grimacing, drifting his hand to rub at the bruise under his collar. But he supposes they had their _own_ shit to deal with without wondering whether he was keeping _his_ shit together.

Three minutes and thirty seconds—and he lets his eyes close briefly, trying to will away the headache that is blossoming just above his left eyebrow.

A _Mingyu_ shaped headache.

Wonwoo doesn't understand why he can’t stop thinking about the guy. Usually he fucks and forgets as soon as he possibly can, flushing the memory from his mind. But for some insane reason Mingyu _stays_ with him. His memory makes Wonwoo burn with embarrassment and shift uncomfortably on his feet because he's never— _never_ let anybody take him like that before.

Even though everything about their exchange was humiliating, degrading—Wonwoo knows he hasn't come like that since he was a teenager. If _ever_.

Three minutes—and someone grabs him by the wrist, startling him.

“Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo swivels his head to the side and the bottom drops out of his stomach drops.

_Oh, fuck—_ he thinks, because Mingyu is standing right there. Right in front of him. Tall and imposing, wearing a sharp grey suit with his hair swept artfully to the side.

He looks impossibly better in a suit—like a living wet dream and Wonwoo feels a hot, surging desire to punch him and kiss him. Not necessarily in that order.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says Mingyu, offering him a slow once over. He tugs on Wonwoo’s arm again, flashing him a dangerous smile. “Guess I _will_ be getting your number after all.”

“Wha—what the fuck are you doing here?” says Wonwoo, astonished. He glances around the lobby uncertainly, taking a moment to compose himself. He’s trying not to panic, trying to push down the overwhelming desire to shove the guy and run. “Are you _following_ me?” He says, barely holding back an indignant noise. 

“ _Please_ ,” Mingyu scoffs, the grin mutating into a smirk so over-the-top that it makes Wonwoo wince. “Flattering as your opinion of me may be, this was a complete coincidence. I just happened to recognise your jacket as you queued up. I work here actually.” He smirks, tapping his top jacket pocket where the badge flashes with the bold lettering: _Kim Mingyu, Head of Security._

Wonwoo hears the distant roar of blood in his ears like he's about to pass out. “Oh, shit.”

He jerks backward, straight into another queuing customer, who drops her purse, sending loose change flying across the floor. Mingyu gives him a slit eyed look of suspicion and bends down to help her pick it up.

"Dude, what's gotten into you?"

Now people are looking over at them, the conversations around them hushing.

“Sorry, sorry.” Wonwoo gasps, still backing away. 

“Hey, wait up—” Mingyu calls out, starting after him when Wonwoo spins on his heels and leaves the queue.

He starts to shoulder blindly through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit. He passes Minghao as he heads towards the glass double doors— and makes brief, deliberate eye contact that he hopes is enough to convey the message: _abort_.

Minghao eyeballs him, exchanging a quick, hissed conversation with Jeonghan in his earpiece, but Wonwoo does not slow from his panicked pace. As soon as the glass doors swish shut behind him, he gallops down the stairs before Mingyu can get his ass in gear and follow him.

“Wonu. Where the fuck are you _going_?” Jeonghan says hurriedly, static hissing in his earpiece. 

“We’ve been made.” Wonwoo answers, touching the bud and turning his head, darting behind a moving bus to cross the road. “I know one of the security guards—we need to leave. Now.”

The comm crackles. “What?”

Wonwoo doesn’t get a chance to repeat himself—because that’s when the first round of gunfire starts. 


	2. Self Made Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for Chapter 2:  
> [Iggy Pop - The Passenger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLhN__oEHaw)  
> [O'Jays - For The Love Of Money](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj-jPJK8DEE)

“Shit—shit—shit!” Minghao chants.

“What? What is it?” Jeonghan asks through the comm.

Minghao glances over his shoulder, watching Wonwoo’s back as he moves towards the exit. “Wonu’s abandoned his post. He’s leaving.”

“ _Why_?” Jeonghan hisses.

“Hell if I know.” Minghao frowns. He’s been attentive to his own surroundings, hasn’t gotten the sense of any danger from his end, but something has spooked Wonwoo. “I think security spooked him.”

There’s shuffling, another voice on the line, and some cursing from Jeonghan. “Fuck. Just—hold your position.

Minghao’s hand is wrapped around the gun in his coat pocket before he answers. “And do _what?_ I’m almost at the kiosk.”

“Just improvise or something. We’ve got too much riding on this to walk out now.” Jeonghan snaps.

Minghao swallows thickly and shuffles further in the queue. He doesn’t _think_ he looks outwardly suspicious; he’s eschewed his usual attire of black cargo pants and black t-shirt for a cheap navy suit, and he’s even wearing a fucking tie to blend in with the plebeians. None of the security guards near him are changing direction, heading toward him or where Jeonghan is loitering in the corner. They’re just strolling along, doing their thing—expect for one….

The tall guard in grey who had approached Wonwoo earlier.

He’s straightening up now from helping an old woman with her purse, but his gaze is locked on Minghao. Or more specifically—where Minghao has his hand wrapped around the gun concealed in his jacket.

“Oh, fuck this.” Minghao snarls.

He pulls his gun out the rest of the way and aims at the guard. It's probably the most stupid thing he can do under the circumstances, but realistically he hasn't much of a choice.

Minghao’s first shot misses its mark completely; the guard may be tall, but he’s not lacking in agility and he’s clearly anticipating the attack. The second bullet gets lodged in a wooden desk the guard dives behind for cover. Minghao doesn’t get a third attempt because now he’s diving for cover himself, as a wave of bullets fill the air and people run, screaming from the lobby in every direction.

Minghao ducks low behind another desk to avoid taking a bullet to the head.

Now, there’s more than one guard and— _holy fucking shit_ —are those Beretta’s they’re packing?

“This isn’t what I meant by improvise!” Jeonghan yells, joining him behind a desk with a furious scowl carved into his handsome face.

Minghao eyes him sideways. “Well, you should have been more specific!”

“Do you have any idea who you’re trying to steal from?” Yells one guard.

There’s the sound of wood splintering as they riddle the desk with gunfire.

“You’re either really brave, or really fucking stupid.” Another guard offers.

The bullet-ridden desk they’re huddled behind barely provides enough cover for one person, let alone two. Probably best, then, that they’re down a few men. But with Wonwoo gone, Jihoon waiting below and DK nowhere in sight, it leaves just Minghao and Jeonghan to return fire against the miniature army that has them pinned down.

Jeonghan adjusts his stance so he’s no longer shooting over his shoulder and empties the last of his clip in the direction of a trio of guards that are attempting to flank their position. They’ve got bullet proof vests though, to go along with their sub-machine guns, so it accomplishes not a lot.

As he ducks down to reload, Minghao leans in to whisper in his ear. “Give Jihoon the signal! It’ll take some pressure off us.”

“I can’t. I already tried and I can’t seem to get a signal right now. Besides, we don’t exactly have this situation under control.” Jeonghan says, and Minghao notes with alarm that he's starting to sound a little rough, slightly frayed around the edges.

Not good.

Minghao's not scared anymore, if indeed he ever was. Minghao is, distantly, a little worried; they haven't planned for this. They're going to need to retreat, and he's unpleasantly caught by the realization that he has no idea how Jihoon will react to this shift in circumstances if they can’t signal him.

Jeonghan twirls a finger, which Minghao is at a complete loss over the meaning of. “I don’t know your secret sign language. _Nobody_ knows your secret sign language. That’s why we have earpieces you dick.”

Jeonghan flinches as a bullet passes close enough to induce his pucker-factor. “I was trying to say—make a run for the door, I’ll cover you. Then you can cover _me_.”

“Got it.” Minghao nods, mouth a firm line beneath his dark glasses as he pulls out a second Glock.

He readies both guns, poised on the balls of his feet, and waits until Jeonghan says—“Now!”

Jeonghan takes up a position behind the table while Minghao sprints across the lobby, but the open-ness of the square provides no protection, and almost as soon as he’s moving, there's a spray of bullets following his trail.

Minghao can hear Jeonghan returning fire, but he’s one guy against five, one Glock against several Beretta M12’s. He glances over his shoulder just in time to see Jeonghan take a bullet to the shoulder and go down.

It _might_ be a clean entry.

Jeonghan _could_ still be alive, though as far as Minghao’s concerned, it’s too late for him.

He bursts through the double doors, bullets chasing him the entire way and practically flings himself down the stairs. His bike is parked a mere block away, but there’s the flashing lights and sirens of incoming trouble so he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself in the back of the first car he sees.

An Uber by the looks of it.

How _convenient_.

* * *

Junhui’s finally getting his life together—which makes for a nice change.

He’s got a new job as an Uber driver, ferrying business men across the city; the pay isn’t great, and he has to wash, shine and wax his car every day, but the tips go straight into his pocket.

He’s also got himself a new apartment, in a building just old enough to feel comfortably worn in but not so old that everything creaks and nothing works properly. It _is_ in the shady part of town, but it’s a darn site better than the four walls of the prison cell he’s recently had the pleasure of leaving.

And he’s got a credit card, with his _own_ name on it this time. 

Identity theft was all fun and good for a while—but he’s on the clean and narrow now. No more jail time for him, thank you very much.

“Finally, things are looking up for me Ma!” He tells his mother over the phone.

Which, when he thinks about it— _might_ have been a clear invitation for the universe to jinx his entire life.

He can't quite make out his mother’s answer, sadly, due to the fact that someone jumps into the back of his car just then, snatches his phone away and flings it out of the window.

Jun turns his head and smiles levelly at the navy suit-clad fellow sitting behind him. "Now," he says, "was that really necessary?"

“Drive!” The stranger yells.

Jun blinks, seriously starting to rethink this entire good fortune. In particular, he's opposed to the goon aiming a gun to his head.

That _right there_ , in Jun's opinion, is a bad sign.

“Aw—no. No, no, no. Please don’t pick me.”

“Drive.” The man repeats shortly, and Jun mimes pulling his hair out in rage.

“Please pick someone else. I was just getting my life together.” He says, aiming for innocence and probably only arriving at panicky.

The goon barks a laugh, poking the muzzle of his gun at Jun's temple. Despite the urge to do so, Jun doesn't close his eyes.

“You need to move the car, _now_.” The goon says. His voice is very nearly civil.

Jun holds his hands up placatingly. “Look—I’ll make a terrible hostage. I’m a working-class male in his mid-twenties with a terrible credit rating and a criminal record. The police will not hesitate to shoot the both of us. You should find a woman to kidnap. Or a _child_. Or a woman _with_ a child. Women and children make _great_ hostages. Look—there’s one across the road.”

“Drive or I will decorate the inside of your windshield with brain matter!” The man hisses, finger twitching on the trigger.

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” Jun huffs, putting the car into gear.

He slams his foot on the gas and pulls out into the traffic, earning a few honks that he ignores.

They drive off, leaving the wail of sirens behind them and losing themselves in the urban bustle after a few blocks.

There aren't any more threats from the backseat, only some breathless directions as they navigate through the gridlock of traffic.

Jun tries to surreptitiously watch the man in the rear-view mirror when he’s no longer teasing the speed limit. He should _probably_ keep his eyes on the road, but his captor is pretty fine looking actually. With mussed, black hair that’s a tad long at the back, and an equally overgrown fringe plastered on his forehead. Cute even—if you ignore the ill-fitting suit, the bad attitude and the gun he still has aimed at the back of Jun’s head.

Jun is, however, ready to overlook the gun—and the car-jacking/kidnapping because it’s been a while since he’s seen a guy this hot. And yes, making heart eyes at the man holding a gun to your person is pretty low hanging fruit even for him, but it was slim pickins’ in prison.

Though he can’t see the man’s eyes through the glinting gold of his sunglasses, the man’s eyebrows draw down a fraction as he catches Jun looking. “You wanna maybe—keep your eyes on the fucking road?” he suggests— _orders_? It’s hard to tell with that dry as paper tone.

“I’m just memorising your features—for when the cops ask me to describe you later.” Jun says, though he really shouldn’t be running his mouth, he can’t help himself. “He was a tall man, officer, in his mid-twenties. Wearing an ugly suit and a mullet. Yeah—I _know_ , a mullet in this day and age.”

The gun pokes the back of his neck.

It’s cold and makes a chill run down his spine. “I was kidding. Geez—can’t you take a joke?” Jun amends with a roll of his eyes.

His captor quirks an amused brow. “I’ll let you know when I hear one.”

Jun exhales and turns his gaze back to the road.

He calmly switches lanes, but the angle of his jaw is rigid with tension and his hands clenching around the steering wheel rhythmically.

“So,” He says conversationally, when the drive seems interminable, buildings and trees zooming past them. “What happened back there? Are you wanted for theft, or _murder_? Because one of those is going to make our blossoming friendship more awkward.”

The man reaches up to drag his glasses down and his gaze locks with Jun's in the rear-view mirror, eyes narrowed under the threat of midday sun.

“Do you always talk this much?” He drawls.

Jun shrugs expansively. “I’m a cab driver, it’s part and parcel of my job _. Sort of_. Passengers usually like conversation when I’m chauffeuring them about. Sometimes they tell me about themselves, about their struggles and I impart my worldly wisdom. I’m like a therapist, a guidance counsellor and an agony aunt—rolled into one. Except I don’t get paid for it. Which I should. I should totally get paid for that.”

The man’s voice goes quiet, hard-edged. “I’ll pay you to _shut up_.”

Jun makes a face. “With what? A complimentary pen from the bank? I couldn’t help but notice your hands are empty, so whatever you were doing at the bank clearly wasn’t _successful_.”

To Jun’s surprise, that makes the guy break into soft, short laughter.

That’s a good sign. Laughter is _always_ a good sign. They’re building rapport.

The man’s gun pokes him in the head again.

Or… _maybe not._

“Fine, okay, no talking. Message received. But I’m turning the radio on. It’s my car—I should at least get to do _one_ thing I want.”

Jun turns up the radio, fingers tapping on the steering wheel along to the song.

It’s a fitting tune: ‘The Passenger’ by _Iggy Pop_.

‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ by _Metallica_ , would be _more_ fitting, but Jun doesn’t get a say what songs play on the radio. 

For now, he has nothing to do but reflect on the glumness of this situation and try to entertain his captor in the vain hope he might be sufficiently charmed to release him.

Jun is, above all things, an optimist.

“Well, are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Jun offers, when he thinks the silence has dragged on too long.

The guy looks over his shoulder, out the back window, a nervous expression on his face. There are no sirens or lights following them. The guy could order him to pull over now, could jump out and this would be all over.

Instead he settles in the backseat and keeps his gun aimed at Jun’s head. 

“The docks.”

“Oh, shit. Are you going to slit my throat, tie my feet to an anchor and throw me in the water?” Jun asks wearily, then regrets that almost as soon as it's out of his mouth.

He probably shouldn’t be giving the guy _ideas_.

The man stares up at him through his fringe for a long moment. “I’m thinking about it.”

* * *

This heist will go down in history as Jeonghan’s least successful.

Though, in his defence, he hadn’t planned for Wonwoo to walk out of the bank seconds before he gave the signal, or for Minghao to panic and start shooting up the place and leave him behind, or for the security guards to be so well _armed_.

Why the fuck are security guards in a bank even _doing_ with sub-machine guns?

It’s a bank in Seoul in the middle of the afternoon, not some war torn—

Jeonghan can’t even be bothered to finish that thought. Possibly because of the massive _blood loss._

He isn’t so sure where exactly he is running, and he isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to _keep_ running either. But he’s already a wanted man with an arrest record the length of his arm, and shooting up a bank in broad daylight is going to send him straight to a high security prison for at least 15 years.

So, he has no choice but to keep running.

He considers ducking into an alley somewhere or maybe trying to hide in one of the bars lining the street he’s sprinting— _now limping_ —down. But there’s blood dripping down one sleeve of his jacket and he knows he’ll have set no more than one _foot_ inside a bar before someone calls the cops.

Speaking of cops— _are they still following him?_

The whine of the sirens had stopped a few blocks back, but he doesn’t dare look around to check. Instead, he turns right into a side street, stumbles down a flight of stairs and loses his footing.

Landing on his injured shoulder, Jeonghan feels the bullet shift with a rush of hot agony and a nauseating crunch. He doesn’t scream—just barely keeps that jot of dignity—but the wounded-animal sound escapes him despite his best intentions. 

_Jesus!_

He breathes through it and staggers upright again, knowing there will probably be more pain to follow if he doesn’t keep moving.

Pain is never a one-time deal, in his experience.

He manages to limp down another narrow street, but his vision is blurring now and he realizes that he needs to find an alternative for the running. And soon.

Just when he starts thinking about jumping into a dumpster and laying low there, he sees a large, ominous looking building at the end of the street.

A church with sign at the front that reads: _‘All welcome’_ to be more specific.

The doors are old and rusted, squeaking a little on their hinges as Jeonghan pushes them open just wide enough that he can squeeze through.

It’s quiet inside. Dark. Not a soul in sight.

Perfect.

He drops into one of the benches and tries to catch his breath, propping his injured shoulder on the top of the bench to elevate it.

It should be safe here for a while. He’s just hoping Minghao, DK and Jihoon made it out okay.

Oh God….. _Jihoon_.

* * *

Jihoon’s been worried about this job from the beginning.

With good reason, it turns out.

“I’ll ask you again. _Who. Do. You. Work. For_.” Each of these words is accompanied with a backhanded slap to Jihoon’s face.

Jihoon grunts and stays in place because he really doesn’t have much choice about it. He is, after all, tied down to a fucking chair. And judging by the echoes, he's in someplace big and empty—the basement, maybe. It's hard to focus on the details when his hands are cold from cut-off circulation and his legs are beginning to get quite numb.

“Who is it?” Crazy snarls, grabbing Jihoon by the hair, which is just fucking undignified.

Jihoon grits his teeth when his head is yanked backwards painfully.

Crazy is, in no particular order: the most annoying person on the planet, the one who caught him rigging the explosives in the underground car park and gave him the spectacular bump on his head, as well as some other assorted bruises, and his current warden.

Crazy’s a thin, wiry looking guy, but he’s got a heavy hand and when Jihoon fails to be entertaining he brings it down across Jihoon’s face, again and again.

Jihoon debates spitting blood in his eye the next time he leans down to speak to him, but that’s likelier to hinder than help.

“Your accomplices— _left you behind_.” Crazy wheedles, and something inside Jihoon goes cold with fury at the suggestion. “They don’t give a _shit_ about you. They ran off and let you get caught, so _why_ are you still protecting them? Give me their names and this will end. Hasn’t anyone ever told you there’s no honour amongst thieves.”

Numerous people have, in fact, told Jihoon that. It’s just that they were blatantly wrong.

That’s not who _he_ is.

Jihoon swallows, convulsive, and croaks out, “Go fuck yourself.”

The man backhands him again. “You’re fucking useless. Wait till the boss gets here. You think I’m bad, you’ve got another thing coming. The boss will…”

After that, Jihoon tunes him out. If the man wants to rant, it’s his time.

Jihoon waits, still and not putting up resistance, until the man runs out of steam and leaves the room with a dark promise to return later.

There’s a small trolley nearby, with a variety of unpleasant sharp pointy things placed strategically where Jihoon can see them. Supposedly this is meant to be a _threat,_ except that Jihoon is mostly thinking of how he’ll use that repurposed dental drill on Crazy’s face once he’s out of this chair.

He’s got a thief’s hands, Jihoon does. What’s a little bit of rope between him and freedom?

* * *

Seungcheol is up two million dollars when his phone vibrates against his thigh.

He hadn’t intended to spend his entire afternoon in the Casino; he’d merely stopped by with the intention of having an unremarkable business meeting followed by an unremarkable dinner in the restaurant. But it’s been a while since he’s flexed his skills and since he’s never one to pass up an opportunity to flex, he figured playing a few hands couldn’t hurt.

Now the poker game's drawing quite the crowd and any hope he had of passing through unnoticed is fading the higher the stakes get.

It doesn’t help that the players are all decently good—even if they don’t pose much of a challenge—or that an eager Supermodel has stumbled into his lap (on purpose, he's sure, but it's not gentlemanly to point that out), and doesn't know when to take a hint.

Seungcheol has had to shift her wandering hands at least twice already, and he's not overly fond of having his ear licked by strangers, but for the life of him, he isn't sure how to detach her from his person without being rude.

It’s ridiculous really: he knows how to fend off unwanted advances from men, but he always feels a _little_ caught out when _women_ put their hands on him. And it's not helping that across the table his main competitor has a blonde one he appears to be taken with, and the two girls seem to be engaged in some kind of silent one-upmanship like the pathological opportunists they are.

Once upon a time, Seungcheol wouldn’t have considered it a hardship at all to have a young, pretty thing sitting in his lap, but these days he’s more circumspect about who he lets get close, because he can never be sure if they’re interested in _him_ —or the fact that his surname is printed on the poker chips, the back of the cards and the front of the fucking Casino.

His phone buzzes again, but he can’t reach it—not with this girl on his lap. He’s expecting a message about some minor diplomatic papers, so he would like to unseat her to check everything is in order. 

“Uh, sweetheart,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Maybe you'd like to get yourself a drink from the bar?”

He lifts a thousand-dollar bill from his jacket pocket with two fingers and gives it to her. She giggles and takes a sip of his scotch, then starts folding the bill into some sort of _origami_ creation.

Seungcheol suspects it's going to be a fucking heart, and this is one of those moments he's glad to be gay because he honestly doesn't think he possesses the fortitude to deal with this level of sappiness on an ongoing basis.

She ends up fashioning the bill into a flower instead, which she promptly tucks into the lapel of his jacket. Seungcheol offers her a wan smile and reaches for his scotch again—not too happy to see his lap-warmer's sipped away a considerable amount.

He empties the glass and gestures to the waiter, but just then, there’s a light tap on his shoulder and Seungcheol turns his head to find the Casino floor manager standing at his side, a tense expression on his face.

“Yes?” Seungcheol prompts.

“Boo Seungkwan has requested to speak with you, Sir. It’s a very urgent matter.” The man says meaningfully.

Seungcheol doesn’t typically like being interrupted mid game, but he’s been looking for an excuse to get the fuck out of here, and this one is as good as any. 

“Of course,” Seungcheol says and stands up, unseating the young woman from his lap. There's a cry of protest around the table—it's the middle of a hand—and Seungcheol just says, “I fold” and leaves everything on the table.

The Floor manager can sort it out, or not, and honestly Seungcheol doesn't give a fuck.

He’s in the back of his limousine, headed home when his phone vibrates again.

“What the fuck is going on?” Seungcheol answers without preamble. He puts Seungkwan on speakerphone, since he needs his hands to light a cigarette.

“Attempted robbery—group of four or five males. Armed with small weaponry and timed explosives for the vault.” Seungkwan shouts above the background din. Where the fuck is he calling from, a monster truck derby?

“So?” Seungcheol drawls, blowing smoke through the crack in the window.

There's a moment of perplexed silence from the other end, before Seungkwan takes a deep breath and says, more wryly then he has any right to, “Have I interrupted your day Mr Choi? Oh, I do apologize, I merely thought you’d want to be informed when someone tries to _rob your bank_.”

“Yeah, yeah, but did they _get_ anything though?” Seungcheol asks. His tone is a bit on the pointed side, but he doesn’t pay all these people to look after his business interests just to be bothered when shit gets tough.

“No, nothing. The vault they were targeting didn’t even have that much money.” There’s a pause, then Seungkwan speaks more quietly. “I was just a little concerned, seeing as we’re bound to have police sniffing all over the place, looking through CCTV and doing background checks on the staff.”

Seungcheol sighs expansively. “ _Let them._ Give them anything they want. They’ll be too focused on the robbers to notice anything.”

“There’s one more thing.” Seungkwan adds quickly.

Seungcheol doesn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “I’m busy—let Mingyu handle it.” He flicks the half-finished cigarette out the window, and reaches down to swipe the phone shut.

“We’ve captured one of them.” Seungkwan blurts out, stopping Seungcheol from hanging up.

Seungcheol takes him off speakerphone and brings the phone back up to his ear in time to hear Seungkwan say. “We moved him to the compound, since the police were at the bank. Soonyoung is questioning him now, but he said you usually like to be _involved_ in the questioning.”

Seungcheol keeps his tone light, although his heart has kicked up a notch. His business interests has evolved beyond the need for him to get his own hands dirty, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped finding a sort of vicious delight in it.

“Yeah, I do.” He leans forward to taps the driver’s glass partition. When the man glances back, Seungcheol makes a round-about gesture with his finger. The man nods.

“I’m on my way.”

* * *

Jihoon’s just testing the binding on his hands when the man returns.

During that time, Jihoon has managed to suss a few things out: he’s not in the bank anymore, he knows that much for certain. The layout of the room they’re holding him in doesn’t fit in with the blueprints he’s been studying for the past three weeks.

They’ve moved him _somewhere_.

Somewhere out of the way, where the cleaners won’t stumble on anything and no suspicious noises would be heard.

Which really, _really_ doesn’t bode well for him.

It’s also become apparent that whoever these people are—they’re on the same side of the law as Jihoon. They’re criminals _too_. The Bank, the faux authority of their suits and ties and shiny shoes are all just a front for something much bigger.

It’s the only logical explanation Jihoon can think of; law abiding citizens would have handed him over to the authorities the moment they captured him.

“Had time to think it over?” Crazy crouches, looking Jihoon in the face. He has the kind of expression that could look friendly if it wasn’t attached to a psychopath.

Jihoon levels him a dispassionate look and keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“I was hoping you’d be difficult,” Crazy says, and his grin turns really bloody ugly at that. He rolls the tray of shiny, sharp looking instruments closer and snaps a pair of latex gloves on. “When I’m finished with you—you’re going to look like an impressionist portrait.”

Jihoon debates a cheeky reply versus begging for mercy. Pride is overrated in his opinion: yeah he can take pain, but he’d really rather not.

“You don’t mind if I put on some mood music? Music always helps me work.” Crazy says, grin widening. He nods at the mirror then lifts up something that looks like a scalpel, just as the music starts to play.

Jihoon recognises the song immediately, and his snort echoes off the bleak concrete walls. ‘Stuck in the middle with you’ by ‘Stealers Wheel’— _honestly_ , the cliché of it all pains Jihoon worse than the throb in his cheek.

Mind, a scalpel’s going to hurt worse than that. Jihoon considers trying to tip his chair back and kicking the guy in the nuts when the there’s a knock on the mirror.

Crazy tenses, eyes going wide for split second before he straightens up and steps away.

He sets the scalpel down and rolls the tray of instruments out of reach, then leaves the room without a word.

 _Ok. What now_?

* * *

“Sorry for disturbing your day Boss.” Mingyu says, falling into step beside Seungcheol as he rounds the last flight of stairs.

Seungcheol waves him off, striding down the corridor with purpose. “You know Gyu, this is my favourite part of the job. I’d hate to miss out on a good interrogation. Besides—it’s not everyday someone is stupid enough to try and _steal_ from me.”

“Not everyone knows who you are.” Mingyu says, and at Seungcheol’s sour sideways glance, he quickly amends. “ _What I meant was_ —not all your business interests are transparent. Your name isn’t exactly plastered all over the front of the bank. If it was, I’m sure we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Seungcheol accepts the comment as the appeasement it is and diverts the topic of conversation slightly. “Seungkwan tells me you _spoke_ with one of the thieves.”

“Uh, yes.” Mingyu fumbles—unusual for him. “Briefly, in the queue. Before the shit storm started.”

“You _know_ him?”

Mingyu makes a vaguely dismissive gesture, as if the question is too absurd to answer. “No. I—thought he looked suspicious, a little cagey and I approached him casually to suss him out. I think that set him on edge and made him bolt. That’s when another started firing his gun.”

“Hmm.” Seungcheol muses, something's not adding up. “I’ll need to see the footage.”

“I’ll arrange it.” Mingyu says shortly.

They walk down a long stretch of corridor in silence until Seungcheol deigns to pick up the conversation again.

“Any casualties?”

“None of your men. One of the robbers took a round to the shoulder, but he managed to limp out the door. The guy we caught was loitering in the underground car park with the explosives. I gather he was waiting for a signal, and didn’t realise his friends had already cut and run.”

Seungcheol grins, predatory. “I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate being _left behind_.”

“He hasn’t ratted them out, if that’s what you mean.” Mingyu says without missing a beat. “He’s a tough cookie boss. We haven’t got a peep out of him. Not even his _name_.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or pleased. Both, somehow. “They all break eventually.”

“I don’t know Cheol, this guy’s different.” Mingyu says, coming to a stop by a window.

It’s a two-way mirror with a view into the interrogation room. Seungcheol spares a glance inside to see Soonyoung looming over a man—boy?

He does a double take and feels his jaw drop.

Correction: _a small man_ , strapped to a chair.

“That’s him?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?” Seungcheol says, in the sharp voice he uses when he has no intention of playing games.

“Yes.” Mingyu nods.

Seungcheol can't speak for a very long minute. With his slick, dark hair and slight build, the captive plays the role of every one of Seungcheol’s Biker fantasies beautifully in fitted leather trousers, black driving gloves, and a sleek shirt with the collar popped high.

“But. He looks…”

_Like a wet dream I had the other night? The perfect size for my lap? An angry kitten?_

“Fun-size.” Seungcheol settles on, because it seems like the least ridiculous option but also the best way to sum him up.

Mingyu makes a noise in his throat that's amused and ever so slightly patronising at the same time. “Don’t let that fool you. It took four of my men to restrain him. He’s got a wicked left hook.”

Seungcheol studies the captive through the mirror, appraising, then notes that the guy’s feet don’t even rest flat on the ground from where he’s strapped to the chair, and shakes his head minutely. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“Seriously.” Mingyu echoes with a nod. He taps his wrist watch, “And it’s been over two hours since we threw him in there. He must know by now we’re not planning on handing him over to the police, he must _know_ what that means and yet—not a peep. He’s loyal to a fault.”

Seungcheol frowns at that.

Loyalty is hard to come about these days, and almost everyone has a price. Some joke it’s for the weak and uninitiated, but Seungcheol’s always respected loyalty.

He could _use_ loyalty.

Seungcheol and Mingyu watch through the two-way mirror as Soonyoung picks up a scalpel and starts doing Michael Madsen’s dance in homage to Reservoir Dogs.

The captive doesn’t flinch. He just looks at the sky as if imploring for patience.

Yeah— _no_.

Seungcheol taps on the glass and Soonyoung stills, scalpel held inches away from the captive’s ear.

It’s unusual for Seungcheol to feel charitable, but he likes to reward loyalty. Regardless of how dangerously attractive the package might be or who it’s working for. 

* * *

The rope’s almost loose when the door swings open again and a man walks into the room.

Not the amateur who’s been knocking him about for the past _how_ many hours, but somehow this guy’s _worse_.

Something about the way he carries himself speaks of experience. Jihoon can't see his face this far away, especially since one of his eyes is starting to swell up, but he knows by the man’s stride, and certainly by his voice when he says, “No interruptions,” that he’s in charge here.

Not to mention, he’s very— _what’s the word Jihoon’s looking for_ —aesthetically pleasing?

 _Yeah_ —that about sums him up.

He’s _very_ aesthetically pleasing.

From his hair slicked back, dark eyes, thick lashes and full lips, right down to his broad shoulders and strong hands. His clothes are immaculately fitted, flawlessly clinging to the long lines of him.

He looks the very image of the perfect man and if Jihoon was the kind of guy to have some sort of list, then he could finally cross off _'wildly and unexpectedly aroused while trapped in a room waiting for impending torture and death.'_

Jihoon realises he’s staring— _probably very obviously_ —at the rather heart-stopping way the man fills out a pair of trousers. So, he takes a deep breath, shoves all of those thoughts into a box in the back of his mind and slams the lid down hard.

The man grabs a sturdy metal chair and takes a seat in front of Jihoon, then leans back to look at him evenly. Jihoon doesn’t flush under the weight of his gaze because generally his skin doesn’t do that, but the back of his neck prickles; he’s feeling distinctly unsettled.

"I apologise for the way you’ve been treated today,” The man starts, gaze unwavering. His voice is even, too, but there's something about his posture that sets alarm bells somewhere within Jihoon's mind. “Some of my employees can be a little…..over-zealous when it comes to protecting my interests."

 _Employees_?—Jihoon thinks, slightly dizzy with the possibilities.

 _What the fuck._ Who _is_ this guy? Who owns a bank? Who employees highly armed guards in suits, has his own personal interrogator and a torture chamber in his basement?

The guy has even got a fucking origami flower in his lapel that appears to fashioned out of a $1000 bill!

Who has this kind of _power_?

Jihoon tries to swallow. It's difficult, considering all the moisture in his mouth has fucked off elsewhere.

It's not the first time that Jihoon has had to deal with the Mafia, especially since his line of work tends to cross with theirs when it comes to certain criminal interests. But this is the first time Jihoon has come face to face with an honest to God _Mob boss._

The man tips his head sideways. “The vault you were attempting to clear out, only had two million dollars in it. Did you know that?”

Jihoon doesn't answer, since, well, since his mouth seems to have stopped working completely. But also because it seems the question is completely rhetorical.

“That’s not a lot of money to split between five guys.” The man continues, jerking his chin up. “Roughly works out to about $400,00 dollars each. Some people call that—walking around money.”

Despite the rapidly swelling left eye, Jihoon attempts his best glower. “And some people can’t afford to walk around with thousand-dollar origami flowers tucked in their lapels.” He spits back.

The Mob boss blinks at him, then glances down at his origami flower, then frowns at it like he forgot it was even _there_. He plucks it out of his lapel and twirls the stem between his fingers. The movement catches Jihoon's attention, and he fails not to stare at the man’s hands—big, strong, capable, wonderful hands—

_Holy shit, what are you doing Jihoon?_

“Out if interest—” Mob Boss cuts in, looking amused, “What grand plans did you have with your cut? Hmm? Any pipe dreams? A down-payment on a house, a sports car or maybe splash out on some tropical island getaway.”

Jihoon shrugs modestly. “I was going to invest it.” He says, because honesty is the best default.

There’s the hint of a smile at the corner of the man’s mouth. “A wise choice. Saving it for a rainy day, I like your thinking. I’m an investor myself.” He says as he rises to his feet.

He paces around Jihoon, who wishes he wouldn’t. It’s making him dizzy enough as it is.

“Well—that’s all I needed to know. I think our business is concluded here.” The Mob boss says quietly.

Jihoon flinches as the man grabs a switch-blade off the table, making a rusty sound as he slides it open.

Jihoon permits himself the luxury of closing his eyes and tenses, bracing for impact, for the sharp slice of pain—but there’s just a minute tightening of the rope around his wrists, before they loosen completely.

“You’re free to go.” The Mob Boss says, re-sheathing the switch-blade and dropping it back on the table.

There were literally a dozen things Jihoon was expecting to hear, and that definitely was not on the list. It throws his world view into a slight lurch, but he recovers with aplomb.

“ _What_?” Jihoon gasps.

Ok, he’s still a little floored apparently.

“ _I said_ —you’re free to go.” The man repeats, favouring Jihoon with a smile. 

Surprisingly, the man takes a step back and only jerks his head sharply. Jihoon presumes that means he is to get up and follow.

He does, but on very shaky legs.

There are two men standing guard outside the room; Crazy, who looks sullen at having his fun cut short, and one seriously tall dude, who appears just as baffled as Jihoon is about this sudden turn of events.

Both the men are armed, so Jihoon doesn’t make any attempts at escape.

It’s doesn’t appear to be necessary though, as he’s led through corridors upon corridors, through seemingly unending stairways that grow plusher and more welcoming as they progress. To the bits of the building meant for polite company, Jihoon supposes.

Finally, they reach a large set of wooden doors, plant pots positioned at either side. There’s a brief, terse exchange; Tall guard leaves through a side door, then returns a few minutes later with a duffel bag and a set of keys, the latter of which he immediately hands to his boss.

Jihoon recognises them as the keys to his bike.

_What the hell…_

Anti-climax is all good and all when escaping the certain death, but this….this is damned unsettling.

* * *

“I believe these are yours.” Seungcheol says, handing the keys over, allowing their fingers to brush together, only for a moment. 

There's strength in the guy's answering grasp, a rough beauty to the skin of his palms underneath the smear of dirt and engine grease. They're working hands; nimble, quick, competent, and Seungcheol's always had a weakness for well-wrought instruments.

“I think you’ll find your bike is just as you left it.” Seungcheol says, after a moment's silence where they just _stare_ at each other. 

He gestures to Mingyu who pushes open the doors leading outside, where a solitary motorbike stands on its kickstands. 

“But if there have been any damages inflicted during its transportation, please let me know and I’ll be sure to settle the bill for any repairs.”

“Uhm. Ok.” The guy says, still looking at him in that half-bewildered sort of way.

He makes an aborted move towards his bike, then glances over his shoulder wearily, eyes darting quickly between Seungcheol and the two guards flanking him.

He’s clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re just going to let me leave?” He asks, inclining his head quizzically.

“Of course.” Seungcheol responds genially. 

The man hesitates a moment longer, then jumps on the bike, turns it on and revs the engine.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Seungcheol calls out, just as the man pushes the kick-stand up.

He has his back turned to them, but Seungcheol can see tension writ plainly in the set of his narrow shoulders. When he turns his head to look at Seungcheol, there’s an imploring look in his eyes.

Seungcheol can't help but see that as a brief, bright moment of fragility. Though perhaps not the sort it would be wise to try and take advantage of. Not now anyway.

“Don’t forget your money.” Seungcheol explains with a smirk. He clicks his fingers, and Mingyu walks over to him with the duffel bag in hand. “That’s what you came here for—isn’t it.”

The man goes silent again, long enough for Seungcheol to think he gone braindead. And then—"What the hell?”

Seungcheol doesn’t see any point in prevaricating. “Your cut of the heist—$400,000 dollars. All that hard work, surely you don’t want to leave without it?”

The look the man throws him is unreadable. But, this time, he responds right away. “No. I suppose I don’t.” He mumbles, looking on numbly as Mingyu fastens the bag to the back of the bike.

Seungcheol steps down to street level, approaching the smaller man confidently. “You have a good day now.” He says, patting the man on the back—then winking. “Drive safe.”

The man regards him steadily, then gulps. “Okay.”

He revs the bike again, then drives off with the expression of a man trapped in his own thoughts.

Seungcheol watches the bike zoom down the ramp and out the gates of his compound. In a way, he feels an opportunity slipping through his fingers, but in another, he feels a better one will be coming his way.

Give it a few days. He can wait.

The second the bike’s taillights disappear behind a row of trees, Soonyoung’s at his side in a flash.

“Boss, with all due respect,” He huffs, trying and failing to reign in his agitation, “But what the fuck are you doing?”

Seungcheol pats his jacket pocket for his smokes, plucks one, puts it to his lips and waits for someone to light it.

Soonyoung and Mingyu scramble to fetch a lighter.

Mingyu gets there first, and thus has the honour of getting smoke blown into his face.

“ _Investing_.”


	3. Karma Police

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for Chapter 3:  
> [Radiohead-Karma Police](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbCOAPR33ME)  
> [The Kinks-Sunny Afternoon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYIl6n_SRCI)

“Not to overstress a point,” Jihoon crackles into the comm while Seokmin’s busy setting up his scope, “But I had my reservations about this job from the beginning, and nobody listened to me. I told you guys the planning was rushed, the intel is old and now—"

That's all he manages before something that sounds like an angry wasp cuts him off. An albatross-sized wasp.

“Come again Jihoon. I didn’t hear that last bit.” Seokmin says from his spot on the rooftop, across from the bank.

He almost regrets not being a smoker. That would have given him something to do with his hands, instead of aimlessly zooming in and out with his scope.

There’s not much for him to focus on right now, so Seokmin’s just dicking about with things, waiting for more instructions. He’s not used to sitting back during jobs—he’s used to being on the front line, in the thick of it. But they needed a premium viewpoint of the bank from certain angles to pull this job, and for that they needed a convincing actor to con his way into the building site across the road. Seokmin was touched to discover that was _him_.

He can't imagine why because he was never very good at actually _maintaining_ a cover for long, but it's stupidly easy to fake being a government employee. Generally, all you need is a printer, a laminating machine, a suit and a bored expression, and Lee Seokmin is transformed into _: Lee MinSeok_ —Inspector for the Sanitation Bureau. 

In retrospect—that was a poor name choice, but Jeonghan had been breathing down his neck to get the ID completed in time, so he'll be excused if it’s not his finest forgery.

He just hopes nobody actually looks at it twice.

“I said—” Jihoon begins again, but the line isn’t clear. The buzzing noise intensifies, then abruptly stops. “more guards than we were expecting.” Jihoon finishes grumbling, before the connection cuts again.

This won’t do.

Seokmin taps his earbud lightly. “Anyone else having trouble with their earpiece?” He asks.

Two “Yes’s” later and a “KCHHHHH— _me too_ —SKKKCHHH _,”_ and Seokmin has to yank his earbud out with a strangled curse, because the squeal of feedback is becoming _unbearable_.

He tries fiddling with it, tries adjusting the frequency but there is nothing but static and the occasional peculiar chirping noise. 

Just as he’s about to throw the blasted thing off the roof and fetch another one, he notices a familiar black, red and white jacket exiting the front doors of the bank.

Glancing through the scope, Seokmin zooms in a little, then curses under his breath.

_What the fuck?_

_What the hell is Wonwoo doing?_

Seokmin trains his scope on Wonwoo’s face, disconcerted by the frown lines on his crew members brow as he moves quickly down the pavement, _away_ from the bank.

“Where’s he going?” he says to himself, as he follows Wonwoo’s path through his scope.

This...is _not_ part of the plan. The timing is all wrong.

Seokmin pulls out his watch to confirm the time, just as he hears a crackle through his earbud.

The building site is a hundred feet away from the entrance of the bank, but the crackle of gunfire from across the road is unmistakable. Seokmin whips the scope back towards the bank just in time to the see the glass door burst open and a crowd of terrified people run screaming from inside. 

He scrambles for the earpiece and jams it back into his ear, “Hannie? Minghao? Come in.”

 _“This isn’t what I meant by improvise!”_ He hears Jeonghan say, followed by a deafening burst of static.

Nobody answers him, but Seokmin can hear shouts and occasional bursts of automatic weapons fire transmitting though their microphones.

“ _Now_.” Jeonghan says, sounding hushed and slightly strained, like he’s crouched somewhere while the sound of gunfire rings in the air around him. 

“Hannie—are you guys—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and then an earful of Jeonghan swearing.

Seokmin knows from experience Jeonghan's probably taken a hit. Nothing too bad, or the pain would be ratcheting through his voice. Whatever it is it's not enough to slow him down. Jeonghan sounds angry more than anything.

Despite the urge to pack up and bolt, Seokmin doesn’t move. It's hard to override self-preservation instincts, once they're fine-tuned. But it’s harder to leave friends behind. So, he keeps his face glued to the scope, alternating his sights between the front door of the bank, and the side entrance to the underground parking lot. He needs to stay sharp, to wait for the next sign from Jeonghan.

If the heist is to continue as planned, he’s supposed to remain on the rooftop until Jihoon drives out with the bags and clear a path for him if necessary. But there’s nothing but silence from his earpiece, and when he sees Jeonghan burst through the door, empty handed and clutching his bleeding shoulder—he accepts the plan has been shot to shit.

They’re retreating. Heist over. 

But Jihoon’s comm is silent, and as far as Seokmin can tell he hasn't budged from his position.

_Where the hell is he?_

* * *

The underground parking lot is silent as Seokmin enters, and it quickly becomes apparent _why_.

Moving low so as not to be seen, he approaches the one lighted area of the lot cautiously, where he can hear a rustle of movement and murmured conversation.

There’s a row of parked cars up ahead, and Seokmin ducks behind each one as he advances, moving as swiftly as he can without breaking cover.

When he reaches one of the support pillars, he stops, cranes his head around the corner slowly and observes.

Under the watery beam of one overhead fluorescent, stand several armed men wearing fashionable suits and little translucent coils leading from their ears down into their collars. They’re talking in low voices, hovering over a duffle bag laid out open on the floor; Seokmin recognizes it immediately as the bag of timed explosives Jihoon was _meant_ to be using to blow out the bottom of the vault. 

Jihoon is present too, though he’s already been incapacitated, lying a few feet away—unconscious but seemingly unharmed.

“Soonie. Are you out of your _mind_? We _have_ to hand him over.” A man in a light grey suit and red tie says to the man dressed in burgundy.

Burgundy snorts and shakes his head. “That’s not what the boss would want. He’d want to know who has the balls to try and steal from him and who put them up to it. Are you going to be the one to tell him we just _handed_ over the one guy we caught? Cause I sure as hell wont.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

Burgundy is silent for a moment, nudging Jihoon with the toe of his boot before he says, “We move him to the compound. The boss will want a _word_.”

Seokmin assesses the situation, running damage control scenarios in his head for whatever the hell _that_ might mean.

Who the fuck is ‘The Boss’ and why the fuck are they not just handing Jihoon over to the cops?

It looks like the guards have secured Jihoon’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, and Seokmin doesn’t think he’ll be able to cut him loose and drag him out of here too. At the moment the men are contained, arguing about what to do with their captive, but this could easily end in a stand-off where they capture both of them if he’s not careful.

Seokmin waits, running through several possible scenarios in his head. He files away as much information as he can about the men—names they let slip, locations. He has about five more minutes before the door leading to the stairwell bursts open and a tall guard rushes through.

“Cops have arrived. They’re going to do a sweep soon, so if we’re moving him—better do it now.”

Keeping to the shadows, Seokmin stays low and follows the small group of men as they hoist Jihoon up and dump him in the back of a parked car. 

He doesn’t have a strategy for stopping them without endangering himself and Jihoon in the process, so he does the next best thing. He waits until one of the guards is behind the wheel and has turned the engine on, before breaking into the nearest empty vehicle, hotwiring it and pursuing them.

* * *

He follows the car at an unobtrusive distance till it pulls into a gated compound on the outskirts of the city, then doubles back, parks a block down from his destination and pulls out his scope. As he studies the entrance to the compound, Seokmin begins to have his _doubts_ about his entire search and rescue plan.

The sign outside the gate reads: Choi Industries HQ, which makes Seokmin’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

Either he followed the wrong car, or it’s just a coincidence, because _come on_. There’s no way that out of all the Bank’s in Seoul, they planned on stealing from the biggest Mob boss in the country.

If they did, then—he doesn’t even want to _begin_ thinking about the consequences here. There's a reason he avoids dealing with the Mafia if he can; he likes staying alive.

Seokmin has zero tactical options, and it’s a fact he’s all too painfully aware of. But he still has to rescue Jihoon, because if _Jihoon_ spills—they’re all in serious danger.

He packs away his scope into its case and puts his mind in order.

He’s got knives in his boots and his Glock in a shoulder holster. He’s got a shoddy ID in his back pocket that might help him pass the guards, but it won’t hold up against a proper inspection. He doesn’t know the layout of the building, but from what he can see it’s lightly guarded.

He grabs his case, fastens the ID to a lanyard around his neck and steps out of the car.

An idea is clicking together in his brain.

It’s stupid, risky and probably _suicidal_ —but he’s Lee Minseok dammit, and he’s going to inspect some pipes.

* * *

There are two guards at the entry to the compound and one in the parking lot. Nothing that Seokmin wouldn’t have expected. They’re not standing guard so much as smoking and shooting the shit, and Seokmin plasters a serious face on as he steps up to the gate and flashes the first guard a card.

“I’m from the sanitation bureau. Piping inspection.”

Somehow, inexplicably, he passes muster.

The first guard ignores him completely, entirely focused on getting his lighter to spark, and the second guard doesn’t even look at his shoddy ID twice.

Shit, this must really be the wrong place.

Never mind, Seokmin will check it – even if they don’t have Jihoon here, he needs to be sure.

Once inside the building, Seokmin takes a deep breath and approaches the reception desk where a bored looking woman sits at attendance.

“Good morning—er—I mean afternoon.” He amends quickly, glancing at the clock situated behind her. “I’m from the sanitation Bureau.”

The receptionist frowns up at him from behind her glasses. “Okay. _And_?”

Oh—shit.

He didn’t think this far ahead.

He didn’t think he’s pass the _gate_.

“ _And_ …I’ll—need to see the building plans. For inspection purposes.” He elaborates at whim, hoping a firm tone will garner compliance.

“Oh. Okay—I think I have a copy out back.” She pauses, then turns to regard him quizzically. “I’m sure we had an inspection not that long ago, come to think of it.”

Seokmin gives her a tight smile. “Not according to _my_ records.”

The woman looks suitably chastised and scurries out to fetch the plans.

She comes back a few minutes later with a folder, that she slaps down on the desk. “That’s all I could find, if it’s not what you need, I can call my boss—”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Seokmin interjects quickly, snatching the folder up. “This will do fine. I just need to-”

Just then, a door at the side pushes open and a man enters the room.

Seokmin stiffens when he recognises him as one of the guards from the bank—the tall one.

_So, this is the right place after all._

The man moves with a taut energy as he steps around the reception desk to grab a set of keys and a large, black duffel bag. There's a moment when he stops to murmur something to receptionist and looks around the room. He nearly sees Dokyeom, but Dokyeom ducks behind his folder and waits the moment out.

Once the man leaves, Seokmin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He moves to stand at the side and busies himself studying the map, trying to figure out where they’d hold Jihoon. If they have him here at all, that is.

They’d need a room, not necessarily anywhere too large. The important thing is to be somewhere out of the way, discreet—soundproof.

According to the blueprints, there’s a maintenance chamber in the basement. Seokmin thinks he’ll start from there.

* * *

He knows he’s heading in the right direction when he passes a few men on the stairs brandishing assault rifles.

They don’t stop him—or ask what the hell he’s doing wondering about on his own. If anything—they’re really fucking helpful; pointing out directions and making way for him on the stairs.

One of them even _holds_ the door open for him.

Sloppy, indeed.

 _Polite_ , but sloppy.

He’s been in McDonald’s restaurants with better security than this.

He follows the map down several flights of stairs until he reaches a long, narrow corridor at the bottom level, at the end of which he finds an empty room.

It’s not _entirely_ empty.

There are two chairs inside, some frayed rope and a tray of grizzly looking surgical instruments glinting dangerously under the sterile white light.

On further inspection, they are thankfully all clean, which just leaves him more questions than answers.

_Where is Jihoon?_

_Have they moved him already?_

_Maybe he gave them the information they wanted after all._

“Who the hell are you?” A voice calls out, breaking him out of his musing.

Seokmin snaps his head up to see a man blocking the doorway, and identifies him as another one of the guards from the bank— _Soonie_? _Soonyoungie_?

“Oh— _hello_. I’m with the sanitation bureau. Here to inspect the..uhm—the pipes.” Seokmin says, gesturing to the pipeless room.

Hopefully this guy isn’t _that_ observant.

“There are no pipes in here.” The man says slowly, giving him a look that is _penetrating_.

_Crap baskets._

“Precisely. There should be. There is a significant lack of piping in here, which is very concerning. There should be pipes, and yet there are none. Where have all the good pipes gone, and where are all the pipes.” Seokmin just manages to stop himself from breaking into song. He coughs to clear his throat. “I’ll have to alert my superiors to your missing pipes. They won’t be pleased.”

The man regards him with slit eyed suspicion—Seokmin attempts to maintain a neutral look.

“You got some ID?” The man asks, drifting towards him like he has all the time in the world

“Off course.” Seokmin says, pulling the official looking lanyard around his neck for the man to inspect.

Seokmin gives the man a quick once over as he leans forward cautiously, eyes flicking between Seokmin’s face and Minseok’s ID.

Up close, he realizes the guy is around his age and is also incredibly good-looking. He feels a little sick at the thought of actually having to kill him to escape.

The man straightens a bit, quirking an eyebrow at him with a playful hint of rebuke. “That picture looks like it was taken a few weeks ago. You’ve got the same hairstyle—even wearing the same suit.” He says, aiming a vicious smile at Seokmin that sends his brain into strict oh, shit mode.

“Well,” Seokmin laughs, pitching the fakest smile he has. “There have been budget cuts in the Sanitation Bureau. I can only afford one suit per year.”

The man makes an amused noise at that. Seokmin very carefully doesn't twitch.

“Sanitation Bureau huh? We’ll see about that--” The man makes an aborted movement for his radio—but Seokmin swings his briefcase and easily dispenses with the guard; one hard whack to the temple is all that’s required to take him down.

Seokmin uses the man’s bootlaces to tie him up and gags him with his own socks, before ridding him of his phone, wallet and gun.

He steals his shoes too—cause he _feels_ like it, and leaves before anyone else catches up with him.

* * *

Mingyu’s made a career out of being less than honest with people. From his family, to his landlord to the nice old lady who lives across the hall that bakes him pies because she thinks he’s a _policeman_.

But he’s never, _ever_ lied to Seungcheol.

He’s never had a _reason_ to before either.

Seungcheol has always been like a terrifying, cooler older brother to Mingyu; the one that tells you not to talk or approach him in the school canteen, but will give you a ride home and help you with your maths homework later.

Mingyu’s made it a point to be completely transparent with him from the beginning, from the day Seungcheol plucked him from the streets as a kid and elevated him to the life he has now. You generally _don’t_ lie to people who house, clothe and feed you when they could have easily broken every one of your fingers for trying to swipe their Rolex. 

Lying about Wonwoo though, wasn’t even a conscious decision—it was _instinct_.

When Seungcheol asked him if he knew the thief he spoke to in the queue, Mingyu found himself bending the truth without even thinking about it. He can’t even explain _why_ he did it. There’s no rhyme or reason for that sudden lapse in loyalty, because he met Wonwoo less than a day ago, and he’s known Seungcheol practically his entire life.

Maybe it’s because he knows, in horrifying, intimate detail, what Seungcheol _does_ to people who try and take from him.

Well—he _thought_ he knew.

Seungcheol’s odd generous streak is leaving him a little perplexed right now.

Watching the pint-sized thief drive off with $400,000 and his life intact was an unexpected turn of events that’s making Mingyu reassess his privately held opinion of his boss.

Perhaps Choi Seungcheol isn’t a terrifying, ruthless motherfucker after all?

“I hope he gets home okay. He seemed pretty bruised and shaken when he got on the bike. I hope he doesn’t have concussion or something. Because he definitely shouldn’t be riding that bike if he has a concussion. Oh no—what if he falls off Mingyu? What if he falls off the bike because he has a concussion?” Seungcheol asks, frown lines marring his face.

Mingyu’s steps falter alongside Seungcheol’s as he realises that wasn’t said _sarcastically_.

Seungcheol’s worry is very genuine indeed.

“Uh—I’m sure he’s fine sir.” Mingyu offers, taking advantage of Seungcheol’s turned back to mouth _What the fuck_ at Seungkwan.

Seungkwan offers him an equally baffled expression in return.

“I’m sure he’s an experienced biker and can withstand a knock or two.” Mingyu adds, placatingly.

He expects Seungcheol to say something offhand and misleading. So of course he’s thrown for a loop when Seungcheol sighs and says: “Yeah, you’re probably right. I shouldn’t worry. But the minute he comes back—I want you to notify me. I don’t care if I’m in a meeting, I want him sent straight to my office.”

“Uh, what? Comes back?” Mingyu echoes, sharing a secretive glance with Seungkwan behind Seungcheol’s back. “What makes you think he’ll be back, Sir?”

Seungcheol gives him one of those unsettling knowing smiles as he pushes open the door of the interrogation room. “Gyu—you should have learned by now, I always—" He stops mid-sentence, backing out of the room, brows arched in surprise.

The noise coming from the interrogation room has Mingyu’s face snapping to the side, because it sounds like someone’s in physical pain.

He cranes his head around the frame and offers his own surprised eyebrows to the sight that greets him: Soonyoung on the floor, wriggling around with his hands and ankles tied, a sock stuffed in his mouth.

The stunned silence holding the room stretches out unbroken until Seungcheol crosses his arms and says, “ _Soonyoung..._ what are you doing?”

“I think he’s practicing boss.” Mingyu hazards, stepping around Soonyoung’s wriggling form on the floor. “He does that sometimes. Asks us to tie him up, so he can practice _escaping_. Says it keep him on his _toes_.”

“Huh.” Seungcheol nods, approving. “Keep up the good work, I guess.”

Soonyoung eyeballs them all as he thrashes angrily on the floor.

Seungkwan steps into the room next and leans down to pull the sock from Soonyoung’s mouth.

“No, no—don’t _help_ him.” Seungcheol tsks, raising a hand to stop him. “He didn’t go to all that effort of tying himself up for nothing. You heard Mingyu, he wants to _practice_.”

Soonyoung groans protest through the gag and Seungkwan shrugs affably, then steps back to watch.

Mingyu's tempted to ask how exactly Soonyoung managed to tie himself up so well. But this might be one of those times where he'll just go with it and ask for clarification later.

They all stand there, for the better part of ten minutes, watching and commentating and offering advice as Soonyoung rolls back and forth on the concrete.

Mingyu’s rather enjoying watching him squirm like an eel, until Soonyoung manages to spit the sock free.

“I’m—not—practicing—you assholes.” Soonyoung gasps breathlessly. “Some guy from the sanitation bureau knocked me the fuck out and tied me up!”

Seungcheol directs a sceptical brow in Mingyu’s direction, looking for confirmation. 

Mingyu shakes his head lightly to dispel his concern. “Sometimes Soonie likes to role-play too. He builds up these elaborate fantasies in his head to go along with his ‘escape plan’.”

Soonyoung can't turn his head round far enough to glare at him, so he settles for a frustrated sigh. “It’s not a role play! Would you please— _please_ untie me!”

Mingyu frowns. He’s known Soonyoung for a long time now, and he’s never heard him sound so haggard. Not to mention, he’s never heard him use the word _please_ before either.

“Uh—” Seungkwan pipes in, raising a hand. “Is it possible that he’s not role-playing? And that there really _was_ an inspector from the sanitation bureau here—cause I’m pretty sure the receptionist mentioned a visit to me when I spoke to her upstairs.”

At that unwelcome revelation, Mingyu scrambles to grab a penknife and cut the laces binding Soonyoung’s hands and feet.

He helps Soonyoung climb to his feet, and the man sways a little in front of them as he rights himself. The left side of his cheek is slightly bruised, and he has a split lip, but he looks all right other than that.

“Sorry dude,” Mingyu chuckles sheepishly, “But you gotta admit, you do ask me to tie you up more often than not. What was I _supposed_ to think?”

Soonyoung grumbles something inflammatory under his breathing, sounding like he tried to deny that and failed.

“What _happened_?” The careful interest in Seungcheol’s tone burns like an accusation, as is the stare he directs at Mingyu; incisive, full of coiled motion.

“I came down here to clean up, and I found this _guy_ snooping about. He flashed this shitty looking ID at me and started waxing lyrical about pipes—or the lack of them or something. I reached for my radio, to check out his story, and the next thing I know—he _swings_ this heavy ass briefcase at me and knocks me out.” His eyes flick wearily back and forth between everyone as he finishes, “Wait—where are my _shoes_?”

“What did he look like?” says Seungcheol, quiet frustration weighing his voice.

“He was a little taller than me, and broader too. Light brown hair, a tiny mole on his cheek. Pretty hot actually.” Soonyoung makes one of those little noises in his throat like he's thinking something obscene. “I’d let him tie me up again if I’m being honest.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “Of course _you’d_ find the guy who knocked you out and tied you up attractive.”

Soonyoung sputters something unintelligible, before throwing his hands up into the air. “What? Am I not allowed to have preferences?!”

Mingyu holds a hand up to silence them both. “We didn’t pass anyone on the way down here. Where did he go?”

“Can’t recall,” Soonyoung huffs, “on account of being _unconscious_.”

“Never mind where he went. The question is, how the fuck did he get down here?” Seungcheol says, thick with contempt.

Mingyu stiffens when he realises the question was directed at _him_ and prepares to explode because – hello, how the fuck’s he supposed to know? He’s only got one pair of eyes, and he was with Seungcheol the whole time—didn’t see anyone suspicious since he got here.

Oh, wait.

“I—I don’t know. I’ll look into it.” Mingyu says hurriedly, trying to recall the face of the man he saw loitering at the reception desk earlier and whether it matched Soonyoung’s vague description.

“My gun is missing.” Soonyoung interrupts, patting down his jacket, before his voice increases in pitch. “And my wallet. And my _phone_. He’s got my phone boss—my _phone_.”

“ _Calm down.”_ Seungcheol says evenly, cutting Soonyoung’s panicky fit short.

“But I’ve got contacts on that phone, Boss. _Sensitive information_.” Soonyoung says, voice down to a normal level.

“Why would an inspector from the sanitation Bureau steal from you though?” Seungkwan says, looking unbearably philosophical.

“Because it’s a hard job Seungkwan.” Mingyu offers seriously. “A government employee’s wage isn’t substantial, so he probably needs to make ends meet by stealing on the side.”

“HE WASN’T AN INSPECTOR FOR THE SANITATION BUREAU YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” comes Seungcheol’s voice next, booming and furious as it bounces off the walls of the empty room, as he grabs the table nearby and flings it across the space, sending surgical instruments flying.

Mingyu doesn’t know what to expect from the wild look on Seungcheol’s face—lips twisted into a snarl and eyes flashing dark with rage—but his muddled brain is still surprised when Seungcheol grabs him by the shirtfront and drives him backwards. Mingyu stumbles a little, startled by the violence of the motion, and then grunts as his back slams painfully into the wall. 

He expects an actual blow any second now, but it doesn’t come.

Seungcheol’s expression has turned controlled all of the sudden, though he holds Mingyu's gaze, eyes still burning with fury.

“Find out who it was and take care of them.” Seungcheol says, sounding far too calm for Mingyu's peace of mind.

“Y-yes sir.” Mingyu swallows hard and nods, because he knows better than to argue with the desperate glint in Seungcheol’s eyes.

Seungcheol stares at him for a long moment, expressionless, before letting him go, walking out of the room and striding down the corridor.

Mingyu remains motionless until he can no longer hear the sound of Seungcheol’s departing footsteps, before stepping away from the wall and straightening himself out.

“Gyu?” Soonyoung asks softly. He takes a cautious step towards him and sets a questioning hand on his arm. “You alright?”

Mingyu offers him a brave smile and keeps his mouth shut.

No.

On second reflection, lying to Seungcheol about Wonwoo was _definitely_ the right thing to do.


	4. It's a set-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 Playlist  
> [Favoured Nations - The Setup](https://youtu.be/jpF_6fToewc)  
> [The Rolling Stones - Gimme Shelter](https://youtu.be/RbmS3tQJ7Os)

Jeonghan feels pain.

Like claws, like a poker from the fire, red hot spearing pain.

“Stop, stop, _please_!“

There’s a face hovering above him. Blurry, too close—but Jeonghan can tell it’s a man, and his mouth is moving.

“Ssh. Almost done. You’re okay.” He says.

Pretty mouth. Pretty eyelashes, light and feathery, soft-looking.

Then—more pain. It smells of iodine, of chemicals, sterile and unnatural. Hospital smells, and something else, something sticky and cloying. Blood.

 _“Stop_.”

“You’re okay.”

* * *

Jeonghan wakes with a jolt. Sudden clarity, like falling out of a dream.

He spends a confused couple of minutes wondering _why_ exactly there’s a crucifix hanging on the wall across from his bed. He thinks he vaguely remembers seeing an angel standing over him and healing him with his touch, which seems a little far-fetched—but no, there was definitely some sort of ethereal being involved, with gentle hands that had taken away his pain.

Which still doesn’t explain the wooden crucifix on his bedroom wall.

 _His_ bedroom? No—not his. He doesn’t recognize this place at all.

 _Who’s_ then?

How could he lose track of himself like this? 

_Focus._

There's a hazy, half-formed memory of running away from the bank, and after that—did he fall asleep in a church?

He must _still_ be on the church grounds somehow.

That at least explains the crucifix and the celibate décor of the room.

 _Get up_ , he orders himself, as though thinking the words might make it so. _Get up, Get up –_ He tries to lever himself upright, pushes the thin, damp sheet away and sways towards the side of the bed.

It’s then that he becomes aware of two things in rapid succession. One, he’s completely naked under the bedsheets, and two, one of his wrists is handcuffed to the bedpost. Which is _never_ a good start to any day.

Christ, what’s he got himself into?

Giving up on trying to do anything, Jeonghan falls back on the bed and lets his uncuffed arm swing back heavy against his stomach. His shoulder aches dully.

He turns his attention to the rest of the room. No furniture apart from the bed, a small bookshelf and a single wooden chair positioned nearby. There’s a jug of water sitting on the shelf, an empty upturned glass next to it. 

The light in the room is dull and murky. He’s got no idea what time it is.

“Ah—you’re awake.” A voice breaks the silence.

Jeonghan turns is head to the door to find—not the turnip-shaped, rosary-fondling elderly priest he was expecting—but a young man, standing just inside the door.

“How are you feeling?” The man says, coming toward him. He’s tall, handsome and exquisitely dressed; wearing a close-fitting and beautifully tailored black suit that clings in all the right places.

 _Very nice_ , Jeonghan thinks numbly, because he can’t stop himself noticing these details even whilst he’s numb with pain and has one wrist cuffed to a bed. It’s bad enough that the job was a failure, but it’s a wound to his professional pride to be apprehended—by a _priest_.

A hot priest.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jeonghan asks, having finally recovered his voice and the ability to blink.

“Watch your language.” The man retorts, abandoning his earlier magnanimous stance.

“Oh, sorry.” Jeonghan winces sheepishly. Until he realises, no, he really shouldn’t be apologetic to the man who’s _stolen his clothes_. He clears his throat and forces out the best smile he can manage, given the circumstances, “Who are you? How—how did I get here?”

The man positions the wooden chair beside Jeonghan’s bed, then leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. There is disapproval etched in every line of his face, in the tightness of his shoulders, in the quiet scowl curling the corners of his mouth.

“I’m Hong Jisoo. I was closing up for the day, when I found you sleeping on one of the benches. I had initially thought you were one of our homeless parishioners, because they often seek refuge here, but then I noticed you had actually passed out—from blood loss I imagine. So, I carried you here, to my home, because it’s a darn site more comfortable than a wooden bench I think.”

And oh, that is _not_ something Jeonghan needed to picture. This guy _carrying him to bed_ like some sort of consumptive heroine.

He is mortified at the thought—and also, confusingly and simultaneously, warmed by it. The rising blush leaves him lightheaded.

Praying Jisoo doesn't notice, or at least mistakes the colour in his cheeks for a symptom of fever, Jeonghan asks, "How long was I out?"

"Four hours." Jisoo replies, without missing a beat. He doesn't even check his watch before answering. He must have been marking the time closely indeed.

“Ah—crap.” Jeonghan groans. He’s missed the rendezvous—his crew will be worried.

Jisoo’s voice takes a sudden hard turn. “You don’t seem particularly pleased—considering I saved your life.”

“Well—I’ll be sure to let Jesus know how great you are when I meet him at the pearly gates.” Jeonghan offers and if he adds a little sarcastic emphasis to the sentence that's perfectly understandable.

Jisoo’s eyebrows go up. “It’s St Peter that greets you at the Pearly gates, _actually_. If you’re going to be blasphemous—at least get it right.”

Jeonghan look down at himself, where the bed sheet has drifted indecently low on his torso. “Why am I naked?”

“Because I needed to extract the bullet from your shoulder and your clothing was getting in the way.” Jisoo explains, like it’s all perfectly sensible.

“Even my boxers?” Jeonghan says, quirking a brow, ignoring how that sounds scandalous and awful said out loud. “Last I checked—my boxers were on my crotch, and nowhere near my shoulders.”

Jisoo makes a face that suggests he doesn’t appreciate this _particular_ line of questioning. 

“You had a bullet wound—I did what I had to.” He huffs, a reluctant blush gracing the bridge of his nose. Which doesn't _really_ answer the question, but Jeonghan is going to pretend that it did.

“And the handcuffs?” Jeonghan asks next, because—he can’t ignore that there's a certain level of sub-textual innuendo about the whole scene.

Jisoo sets his teeth into his lower lip, just a little, like he’s uncertain or maybe worried. “A necessary precaution. I had no idea who you were and—you were _armed_.”

“Where is my gun now?” Jeonghan asks, which brings a dimpled smile to Jisoo’s face.

“Oh, don’t you worry about it. I’ve stored it somewhere safe. It’s wrapped inside a cloth, inside a box—at the bottom of a lake.”

Jeonghan glares at the last part of that sentence, because taking his gun is one thing, tossing it into the lake—that’s just _overkill_.

“Shit dude, that was my favourite gun.”

Jisoo shoots him an unimpressed look. “ _Language_.”

Jeonghan sighs, thumping his head against the pillow. “Disposing of my weapon really wasn’t necessary. I’m not dangerous. I’m a ….a cop, actually.”

“Oh, _really_?” Jisoo lets out an unflattering snort. He leans into Jeonghan's face, not shying beneath the defensive glint in Jeonghan's stare. “If that’s the case—I’ll call them now, shall I? Tell them to come pick you up.”

“No— _don’t_.” Jeonghan interrupts, sharply enough to catch Jisoo’s attention. He was _trying_ to sound authoritative, but he thinks he’s missed by a mile and hit 'scared' and 'confused' on the way.

His gaze breaks away and lands on the wall behind Jisoo. Even though he is no longer looking directly into Jisoo's face, he sees the man’s expression ease fractionally, and there is the barest slouch in posture.

Jeonghan doesn't know what to make of it or him, so he bites his tongue to keep from speaking—to avoid offering unwanted excuses and explanations.

After a while, Jisoo stretches his long legs out, boots just off the edge of the bed.

“So—how did you get injured?” He asks next, sounding cautiously intrigued.

Injured. Right. Jeonghan turns his head to look at his shoulder, mostly hidden under stark white gauze. He tries to peek under the dressing and hisses as it tugs in his skin.

“Hurts,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, that happens sometimes when you get shot,” Jisoo says, a tad too amused for Jeonghan’s peace of mind. He stares at him, waiting for Jeonghan to expand.

“I suppose anything I say will be protected by _confessional privilege_.” Jeonghan says, in a grudgingly diplomatic tone of voice.

Jisoo nods slowly, agreeably, “Yes, it _would_ be—”

“I tried to rob a bank.” Jeonghan admits at length.

“— _If_ I were a priest.” Jisoo continues with a smirk. “As it is, I’m just the Sunday school teacher. And I occasionally play the organ when Mrs Chan’s arthritis is playing up.”

Jeonghan can feel his eyebrows lifting in shock. “Dammit!”

“Language!” Jisoo tuts, but his eyes are bright, amused.

They fall into another silence where neither of them says anything for a while.

Jeonghan is starting to wish for something to dull the pain when suddenly Jisoo’s rising from his chair and moving over to the bookshelf.

“They haven’t caught anyone.” Jisoo announces, and Jeonghan hears the clinking of a glass, shortly followed by the sound of pouring water. 

“Huh?”

“From your heist crew.” Jisoo explains, glancing over his shoulder. “There was a short segment in the evening news about the robbery. The correspondent said nobody had been apprehended yet, but the authorities were _investigating_.”

“Oh—good.” Jeonghan nods, relieved.

At least the others got out okay, even if he didn’t. And if they stick to the contingency plan, they’ll all meet by the docks and lay low till this whole thing blows over.

“Think you can manages these?” Jisoo says, turning to face him.

There’s a small plastic pill bottle in his hand, that he shakes enticingly in Jeonghan’s direction.

Jeonghan can’t help but crack a smile, “You read my mind.”

He carefully eases himself to a sit, and promptly feels a hundred years old. Holding his hand open, he watches as Jisoo uncaps the bottle and dispenses two red and white pills into his palm. 

“So, when are the cops coming to take me away?” He inquires, as casually as he can manage.

Jisoo freezes in the process of setting the glass of water on the bedside table.

“I—uhm—I haven’t notified them.” He mumbles solemnly, offering Jeonghan a small, self-deprecating smile. He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Despite his better judgment, Jeonghan’s leaning toward charmed. “ _Really_. And why not? Harbouring fugitives is some serious sinful business, you know.”

“I’ve been busy.” Jisoo says simply, gaze averted as he scrubs a hand through his dark blond hair. “Besides, I didn’t just waste my energy saving your life for the mafia to have a man shank you in the prison showers, or whatever they do to people who try and steal from them. Terribly cranky lot, those banking magnates.” He says quietly. It's strangely serious, firm, like it matters somehow.

“Shank me in the— _what_?” Jeonghan says, tossing back the pills. He swallows awkwardly, the pills getting stuck in his throat, and it takes two cups of water and some gentle back-pounding to get him sorted.

“What do you mean _Mafia_? Who said anything about the Mafia.” He croaks when he can breathe again.

Jisoo’s frowning now, clearly puzzled by Jeonghan’s reaction. “You do realise _who’s_ bank you attempted to steal from—don’t you? I mean—I don’t move in the same circles as you, but even _I_ knew that bank was part of the Choi conglomerate, certainly any sane person would _avoid_ stealing from.”

“Choi— _conglomerate_?” Jeonghan blinks, wondering if he should actively object to being called insane.

“Oh, you know, that dreadful man—Choi _something or other_. Paints himself to be some sort of charitable businessman, but half the city knows what he deals in—and the other half are too scared to do anything about it. He’s offered to donate to the church on occasion—but we’ve never accepted. _Seungcheol_ —that’s his name. Choi Seungcheol.” Jisoo finishes at last.

Which brings all of Jeonghan’s thoughts to a shuddering, destructive halt and immediately replaces them with new thoughts, terrible, terrible thoughts that leave all the air punched out of him.

“Oh, shit!” Jeonghan hisses. Adrenaline is spiking through his veins, making his heart pound and his palms sweat. This is bad. This is very, _very_ bad. “Shit—shit—shit—shit.”

“Honestly, the mouth on you!” Jisoo admonishes.

Jeonghan laughs even though he’s pretty sure nothing will ever be funny again.

“God, I’m sorry—but—,” Jeonghan says, managing to infuse his voice with a calm he doesn't feel.

He scrubs at his face with his free hand and considers the odds: that of all the banks in Seoul he planned a heist on the one owned by the Mafia; that they’ll be able to use the CCTV footage to identify him and his crew; that he’ll be dead before he’s thirty just like his mother always said he would.

Jeonghan fights back the edge of panic. He went into this with only half the information he usually has on a job, but he’d been assured by the ‘nameless client’ that heist would be a milk run; in and out with zero casualties.

That was a big fucking lie because now the Mafia are involved, and the revelation sends a trickle of fear along his skin.

He should have _seen_ this coming.

He should have _known_ there was something odd about the intel he was given.

He should have done his own research—

No.

He should have _never_ have accepted this job in the first place and then dragged his entire crew in with him.

Jeonghan turns his face into the pillow so Jisoo doesn’t have to hear him yelling “ _FUCKKKKKKK_!”

When he turns back around again Jisoo, bizarrely, seems to have the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Yes, well—clearly you have a lot of thinking to do.” Jisoo smiles, patently unsympathetic, “I’ll let you get some rest.”

“No—no.” Jeonghan splutters, trying to lever himself up off the bed. “You have to uncuff me—I need to go! I need to warn my crew!”

“No.” Jisoo shakes his head, not hearing or perhaps ignoring the desperation in Jeonghan’s voice.

He's nearer now, right beside the bed, and risks placing a hand on Jeonghan’s naked chest, pushing him down again firmly, but gently. “What you need is to _rest_. You’re no good to anyone in your current state.”

Jeonghan wants to argue some more, but honestly—he’s a little _stunned_. He doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or wary or turned on or what, so he just stares at Jisoo, baffled both by his unnatural kindness and his relaxed attitude at having a criminal in his home.

Jeonghan let out a sigh and it loosens something in him, makes the knot of dread and doubt and frustration curl into something smaller, more manageable, even as Jisoo tugs at the gauze over his shoulder and makes him hiss. 

“Get some sleep—and I’ll be back soon to change your dressing.” Jisoo says again, calm as anything as his nimble strong fingers curl around the bed sheet and bring it up over Jeonghan’s shoulders.

His hands are gentle, his eyes concerned, and Jeonghan can't deny his own interest in what those hands can do under different circumstances, how those eyes could drink him in if he allowed it.

* * *

_This is the dumbest spot to rendezvous_ —Wonwoo thinks, as he continues to study his surroundings. An abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

But it’s the location Jeonghan had scoped out for them to lay low following the heist, whether or not things go according to plan, so Wonwoo jumps the fence and enters.

He kicks a side door open, gun pointed up, then down. There is already a round chambered, Wonwoo knows, as he silently moves out of range of anyone who might be hiding behind the door with a gun.

But there’s nobody here yet.

The place is cold and empty, minimally furnished and his footsteps echo softly as he steps inside. 

It reeks of dust and disuse, and the foul stench blossoms and tickles his nose the further he wanders in; hardly suitable for housing five guys after a heist.

Wonwoo smirks when he notices a faint light coming from the office at the top, overlooking the whole warehouse.

Guess somebody _did_ make it here before him.

He’s halfway up the metal staircase when his boot catches on a wire stretched low across a step.

He hears a faint ‘click’ above him, has a second to think—‘Shit’—and then the office explodes.

It's too loud and too close, windows blowing outward, glass slicing through the air.

Wonwoo gets his arm over his head but he’s blown backwards by the force of it anyway. All he can do is clench his eyes shut and grit his teeth. Live in that roar of noise and wonder if it's ever going to stop.

When he comes to, he’s slumped on his back on the ground and he feels like he's been given a massive electric shock. He's too hot and too tight, skin twitching, internal organs spasming while his head's buzzes insanely. His cheek is wet and he can smell copper, can feel the trail of liquid past his neck and that suggests it's blood from his ear rather than anywhere else.

Oh—fuck.

Was that a _bomb_?

Did someone plant a bomb at their rendezvous location?

This just keeps getting from bad to worse, and then from worse to worst, and then they really need to make up new terminology for the psycho bullshit situations Jeonghan’s plans result in.

Distantly, Wonwoo can make out the crackle of flames, feels the heat of them on his body. He lifts his head with some effort to glance at his surroundings, and finds the office above has been totally devastated by the explosion. 

There’s black smoke rising in the air, flames licking the doorways and windows and quickly spreading to the rest of the warehouse. Above him, the ceiling shakes and groans, light fixtures crashing down in a shower of sparks and metal clangs.

He struggles to sit up, his whole body aching. There’s broken glass digging through the sleeve of his jacket and into his arm. The leather tears and he barely gets a hand up to brace himself on the wall.

The second he straightens up, the world briefly goes grey, cold sweat collecting everywhere.

Fuck—no. He doesn't have time to pass out. He is not being buried alive inside some shitty warehouse building by the docks.

Wonwoo feels like a walking bruise, breathing hard and wincing with every step—tender everywhere. But he forces himself to stumble towards the door he came in through.

It takes a ridiculous amount of energy, but he bursts out into the alley, into the light, the building cracking and listing behind him.

* * *

It's only four o'clock when Jun arrives at the docks, but the sky's already a listless miserable grey.

He rolls down his window, then promptly rolls it back up again because the docks smell like ass. Always have, always will.

As they drive closer, Jun can see several dozen people loitering outside the main entrance, craning their necks to get a look at _something_ ; dock workers he assumes, from their clothing.

Then he realises what they’re all gathered around and staring at. In the distance there’s a building on fire—a large warehouse in fact—with thick, black smoke billowing from the giant gaping hole in the roof.

“Holy shit. What’s going on here?” He gasps, applying the breaks gently.

There are a few fire trucks parked around the building, trying to douse out the flames and there’s a police cordon erected up ahead, redirecting trucks away from the site.

The car has almost come to a complete stop when Jun feels the muzzle of the gun poke him in the neck again.

“Turn around and keep driving.”

Jun hates how quickly he obeys the command. Feet moving almost without his consent. The car jerks and shudders as he quickly shifts gears and turns.

“I’m guessing that burnt out warehouse was where you were headed, huh?” Jun asks, with a sharp nod back towards the building. “Looks like someone decided to leave you a little _welcoming_ gift. Maybe even one of your own crew, for instance.”

The man ignores the leading edge to that statement, but judging by his taut, unhappy expression that's a distinct possibility.

Jun sighs loudly through his nose, peels out into the main road and into the rush of frenzied traffic.

“So, if you’re not meeting up with your _crew_ , what _are_ you going to do?” Jun asks.

Unsurprisingly, he’s just met with more moody silence.

He manages a breathless huff of laughter, because _honestly_ , this guy is like a whole parade's worth of mystery and it’s slowly driving him insane.

Jun stares at his gloomy passenger in the rear-view mirror for a minute and tries his hardest to spontaneously develop telepathy, to no avail.

“Are you thinking about handing yourself over to the police?” Jun grasps for something else to break the silence, “That sounds like a plan. Maybe you could jump out of the car and jack someone else for a change—that could be fun. _Or_ you could just catch a ride to another city—leave this all behind you and start afresh. _So many options.”_

The man eyes flick to his in the rear-view mirror just long enough for Jun to see his frustration, but his voice is confident when he says, “We’re going to keep driving—till I figure something out.”

Jun really doesn't like the sound of that option, and says as much. “I don’t like that option. That option sucks. I vote you hand yourself into the police.”

The man’s mouth goes fine and tight. “You don’t _get_ a vote.”

“Yes, I do. This is my car—I get _two_ votes. I get to vote for myself, _and_ my car. And we’re both in agreement that you hand yourself into the police.”

The man cocks his gun and aims it at the back of Jun’s head, as if to suggest his gun gets a vote as well—and that it outvotes Jun and the car somehow.

Which, in all fairness, it probably _does_.

“Well, if I have to drive anymore—I need something to eat. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and normally I would have had at least five cups of coffee by now. _I need caffeine.”_

“No—we can’t stop.” The man mumbles. He sounds bleak, or maybe just distracted.

“Fuck that. I need food, dude. Threaten me all you want. Hell—shoot me even, but if I don’t get something to eat I’m going to become the biggest pain in the ass.” Jun complains into the mirror.

The man levels a fairly steady and long _are you fucking serious_ look at Jun.

Jun matches it, beat for beat.

The man holds his stare for a minute, then looks away. Gazing outside the window, a muscle in his jaw tics. “We’re not stopping. That’s final.”

And doesn’t that just brass Jun right the fuck off.

A quick, sharp turn sends the man slamming into the passenger door.

“Hey!” He yells, righting himself.

Jun just shrugs, then veers the car dangerously into another side street that sends his passenger tumbling in the back seat. 

“Cut that shit out!”

Jun watches the man’s eyes darken with anger, and wonders when he’d decided angry kidnapping psychopath was a damn sight more attractive than just about anything he’s ever seen. 

“Oops,” Jun says without an ounce of apology. He turns the wheel violently to the right, sending the car careening around the corner. “This is what happens when I’m hungry. I drive like a _lunatic_.”

The man steadies himself by grabbing to the back of Jun’s seat, then stares at him, in a way that looks threatening but doesn't really tell him anything.

Eventually he lowers his gun, sitting back in his seat and placing his free hand on his knee, fingers tapping nervously before he forces himself to still them. He turns to look out the window, the scenery flying by in a whiz of colour.

Finally, he exhales, the puff of breath loud enough to break the silence. “Fine. But you can’t eat in. We need to keep it low-key. Get a drive-through or something.”

Jun grins and flips the indicator when he spots the first drive-through, “McDonalds it is.”

His passenger doesn't look happy about his choice, mouth turning down at the edges like he's honestly horrified by the idea. He’s clearly a Burger King kind of guy, but he sits back in his seat and lowers his gun when Jun indicates left and turns the car into the lane of a McDonald’s drive through.

“Hello Sir, can I take your order?” Asks the cheery, disembodied voice through the receiver.

“Yeah—” Jun begins, leaning out of his window a little to get closer to the order screen. “Listen—the man in the back of my car has taken me hostage and is holding a gun on me. Please call the police.” He says earnestly.

He doesn't even care that his captor hears, that he makes a soft noise of shock in his throat.

There is a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line, were Jun can hear the McDonald’s server taking that on board, and then a _sigh_. “Look dude—I don’t get paid enough to deal with this bullshit. You ordering or what?”

“Worth a shot.” Jun shrugs. He goes on to order, ignoring the incredulous look being levelled at him from the back seat. “I’ll take a double cheese burger meal, large—and a diet coke. And—” He pauses to spare a glance in the rear-view mirror. “You want anything?”

“Oh—uh. I’ll have a salad. Chicken. A McChicken salad—or whatever.”

Jun makes a face and turns back to the mic, “And one Happy Meal.”

His passenger sputters. “What? No—I said I’ll have a _salad.”_

“A Happy meal _please.”_ Jun drawls, deliberately cloying, and is briefly comforted by the scowly little furrow of the man’s brow

“Hey!”

“And can you throw in an extra toy?” Jun adds, smirking. “This asshole needs cheering up.”

His passenger snorts something disgusted.

When Jun drives up to the pay window, he forks over some cash—then directs a pointed look at the back seat. “Pay up, grumpy.”

“Oh, uhm.” The man hesitates, blushing furiously as he fidgets. “I kind of don’t have my wallet on me. _Sorry_.”

Jun raises an eyebrow that he hopes the guy understands is pretty damn unimpressed.

He’s pretty sure there’s an unspoken rule that hostages don’t have to pay for the captors to eat.

Okay, probably not. But there _should_ be.

* * *

In spite of having gotten to bed late the night before—Mingyu is still working well past midnight; scouring through CCTV footage and fielding security calls. He’d watched the same 10-minute loop of video almost a hundred times, trying to identify the man who’d snuck into HQ. But he couldn't find any connection between _Lee Minseok_ , the heist at the bank and the man Mingyu had known as Wonwoo.

Which wasn’t a surprise. It wasn't as if they were all using their real names, anyway. 

When he finally _does_ make it back to his apartment, he’s so tired he doesn’t notice the upturned lamp in the living room until he’s standing barefoot in the kitchen—guzzling a bottle of water.

Mingyu sets the bottle down on the counter noiselessly as his eyes dart around the room.

He vaguely remembers the front door had still been locked when he got it, which is a good sign. No forced entry as far as he could see.

Maybe he was over-reacting, but he couldn't take the chance. 

From his spot in the kitchen, he checks every darkened corner, every piece of furniture large enough to hide behind, searching for anything that looks out of place, or that looks like a trap.

He doesn't see anything, but he's careful where he puts his feet anyway as he steps towards the lamp and…

Mingyu freezes when he hears a noise from down the hall.

Not a crash, not a loaded barrel—just someone very quietly pushing a door open.

If he hadn't been on edge, if he hadn't been listening for it, Mingyu is sure he wouldn't have heard it.

It could be anyone, of course. Soonyoung is the most likely and has his own set of keys, but Mingyu has never known him to show up uninvited and let himself in, and besides, Soonyoung had called it a day several hours ago and had Seungkwan drive him home, citing a headache.

Mingyu glides his hand under the kitchen table, fingers colliding with the butt of the Glock he'd secured there for emergencies. It slides into his hand without a sound.

It’s pre-loaded but he checks the clip anyway, more out of habit than anything else, and waits for something to happen. A dull scrape of feet on the carpet and Mingyu settles in the front hall, thankful the space is wider than the hallway. It gives him the advantage over anyone entering.

The creak of floorboards comes again, a little louder, and this time, Mingyu can hear the slightest shuffling of feet, then the sudden intake of breath.

Mingyu relaxes his grip on his gun, takes a deep breath and listens for the tell-tale click of tumblers falling into place. A real pro job—done in seconds—and quietly, too.

He braces himself as a figure appears in the shadows of the hallway, directly in his sights. 

“Big mistake pal.” Mingyu adopts an accent that is a lot rougher than his own.

He doesn’t appreciate strangers breaking into his home, especially when they rearrange his furniture, and the guy with the dark, floppy hair is doing his best to keep his face in shadows so Mingyu can't even get a decent look at him.

“S-sorry. But I didn’t know where else to go.” The shadow says, voice sounding more than a little broken.

Mingyu frowns and keeps the Glock steady, even as he reaches the other hand up to feel along the wall for the light switch. 

Light floods the hallway, revealing a man in a bloody jacket leaning against the wall and all the breath goes out of Mingyu in one go.

“ _Wonwoo_?”


	5. Cause I Made My Mind Up, You're Going To Be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 Playlist  
> [The Rolling Stones - Gimme Shelter](https://youtu.be/RbmS3tQJ7Os)  
> [Donovan - Sunshine Superman](https://youtu.be/LRGA3CPp6hI)

“Wonwoo?”

Mingyu relaxes instinctively, and then immediately tenses up again, cross with himself.

Wonwoo’s the _last_ guy he should be letting his guard down around, because Mingyu knows damn well how guys like him operate.

“Yeah, I appreciate this is little unusual.” Wonwoo flips his hands over at waist-level, palms up, a discreet pantomime of honourable intentions. “But I promise—no trouble.” He says quietly.

There's an almost apologetic air to the words, but Mingyu doesn’t lower his weapon. He's known for many things—his skill with interrogation, his lethal aim, his flashy suits—but politeness isn't one of them, and the thought of Wonwoo infiltrating his space, memorizing the minutiae of his life for later exploitation – it makes his skin crawl.

“You’ll forgive me for not putting away my gun, but it’s not every day the guy I slept with tries to hold up the bank I work at, then shows up in my house later.” Mingyu sneers. “I’m guessing you’ve been following me for some time and last night was some kind of _reconnaissance_?”

“No. That was a complete coincidence.” says Wonwoo, evenly enough that Mingyu isn’t sure whether he is lying or not. “I was as surprised as you when we—" He pauses to take a deep, ragged breath, lips drawn into a tight line. He looks tired. Drained.

Mingyu can see his eyes flicker, his shoulders sagging noticeably as he struggles to stay upright, and the way he's holding his side, wincing with each shallow breath isn't promising either; broken ribs, probably, and that's a _best-case_ scenario.

“Why do you look so... _punctured_?” Mingyu asks, jerking his head at the holes in Wonwoo’s jacket.

“I had a small run in with a bomb.” Wonwoo’s words flow out on the tide of a shaky exhale.

“A bomb?”

That doesn’t sound like _no trouble_ to Mingyu, but perhaps Wonwoo’s got a different rubric for this sort of thing.

Regardless, Mingyu doesn’t like it.

This is new territory for him. Picking up hot guys for a quick fuck is one thing; hot guys turning up uninvited on his doorstep is quite another. Even if Wonwoo’s motives are innocent today, there’s nothing to stop him turning a gun on Mingyu tomorrow.

“Bank robbery and a bomb all in the same day.” Mingyu whistles. “Wow, I think you’re a little _too_ high maintenance for me.”

Wonwoo offers him a weak smile in return. He’s gone a shade paler, staring fixedly at the couch in front of him. “Can I...sit down?” he says in a careful voice

“Hmm, _no_.” Mingyu says, a little pettily.

Wonwoo's smile dims, “ _Please_?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Wonwoo says, sounding strained. He wets his lips with his tongue, gaze drifting from the gun in Mingyu’s hand to the door. “I’ll go.”

“I can’t let you do that either.” Mingyu says, watching Wonwoo try to pretend he doesn't need the wall to hold him up. “You’re a risk. Can’t have risks in my line of work.”

Wonwoo’s expression pinches, “So—what? You’re gonna shoot me?”

“ _Maybe_.” Mingyu drawls, cocking the trigger pointedly.

It would be so easy to take care of this now.

Problems solved in one squeeze of the trigger.

Except, Wonwoo _does_ look like shit, with the dark bruises under his eyes, face drained of all other colour and his grim little pout. No one has ever been able to accuse Mingyu of being a soft touch, and yet he's feeling an weird kind of urge to usher Wonwoo over to the couch and fetch him a beer.

Wonwoo takes a single step forward when his knees buckle under him, sending him pitching forward toward what promises to be a very unpleasant landing. Mingyu catches him before he can get too far, fingers digging sharply into his sides.

“Drama queen,” Mingyu says, faintly patronizing.

Securing the pistol, he lays it carefully on the coffee table, then tugs his good arm more securely across Wonwoo’s shoulders and begins steering him towards the bedroom.

“Come on then. Let’s get you to the bed so I can get a look at you.” Mingyu says. He pulls Wonwoo in just a bit tighter against his side, steadying him before they begin the long shuffle down the corridor. “If you pass out on me right now, I’m leaving you on the floor.”

Wonwoo manages a breathless huff of laughter. “So heroic.”

“It’s more than you deserve.” Mingyu says, but his arm is unyielding round Wonwoo’s waist, bearing him up as they make their way to the bed.

Once they’re there, Mingyu ducks out from under Wonwoo’s arm, and eases him down onto the bed. He watches Wonwoo slump back onto the covers as if he’s lost all his bones.

“Where does it hurt?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer for a minute. He lies staring at nothing, then suddenly pushes the heels of his hands into his forehead. He remains like that for a second, as if he’s trying not to pass out. Mingyu watches.

“ _Everywhere_.”

Mingyu throws him a glance that spells out exactly how unhelpful that information is. “Awesome. Thank you for being _specific_.”

Wonwoo releases his head and looks up at Mingyu. His eyes are watering. “I managed to pull out most of the glass from my arms, but—I didn’t have anything to stitch the wound.”

Mingyu sighs and leaves the room, goes to the kitchen and puts his head inside his medicine cabinet. He’s got a fully stocked first aid kit and plenty of bandages, but there’s no pain relief except an expired bottle of Paracetamol.

He ignores it, reaching for the bottle of Vodka instead.

“Lucky for you this isn’t the first time I’ve had to stitch someone up like this.” Mingyu observes, walking back into the bedroom.

Wonwoo has managed to shrug his jacket off now without out too much apparent trauma and is staring pale faced at the deeps cuts along his arms.

Some will need stitches; the others are superficial enough to sting like fuck but should heal fine on their own—as long as they don’t get infected. Dragging a chair over to the bed, Mingyu drops the first aid kit on the floor and sets the bottle on the night stand.

"I don’t really like Vodka," Wonwoo announces, even as he makes a grab it.

He wedges the bottle between his knees and tries to twist the cap off one-handed; his other hand isn't in any condition to contribute to the effort, gashed as it is and bleeding worryingly.

"Well you better start liking it cause there aren’t any pharmacies open this late and I don’t have any painkillers," Mingyu mutters, snatching it away.

He sets the cap carefully on the table before handing the bottle over again, dropping into the empty chair as he watches Wonwoo tip back a generous swallow.

Wonwoo's grimace would be comical in other circumstances, but Mingyu just plucks the vodka out of his grip again.

"We good?" Mingyu checks.

"Of course not," Wonwoo mutters. His eyes are still sharp, but they won't stay that way for long—not with the amount of alcohol he just knocked back.

Mingyu moves as gently as he can when he takes hold of Wonwoo's wrist and positions his injured hand on the towel between them. The lamp casts sickly yellow light across the gash on his arm.

Not so deep after all, Mingyu realizes with relief, but still bleeding messily over the towel.

He spares an upward glance and catches Wonwoo's eyes, groggier now, then reaches for the first aid kit and gets to work.

He's quick about it—years of experience have made him damn good at stitching—but the cut is a long one, and by the time he's got Wonwoo bandaged up, Wonwoo has helped himself to another long drink.

“Messy, but you’ll live.” Mingyu offers in reassurance.

Wonwoo hums around the lip of the bottle, takes another swig and growls when Mingyu pulls the bottle away. 

“I think you’ve had enough.” Mingyu says, heartlessly placing what’s left of the bottle out of reach.

Wonwoo's eyes watch him blearily as Mingyu cleans away the mess.

"Thanks, I erm, appreciate this," Wonwoo says, rising on steady-ish legs once Mingyu has tucked the first aid kit into the nearest cupboard.

Mingyu gives up a tight smile; it's all he can manage.

“Soo.” Mingyu drawls, pushing his hands into his pockets. “This is kind of awkward, huh? Really didn’t expect to see you again. Not that I’m complaining, I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances is all. I haven’t ratted you out by the way. I’m not sure why.”

Wonwoo's eyes narrow knowingly, his brow furrowing as he crowds forward into Mingyu's space. Mingyu retreats but Wonwoo just follows, clueless and sure footed, until Mingyu feels the edge of the bureau digging into his back and has nowhere else to go.

“Uh, Wonwoo—what are you doing?” Mingyu opens his mouth to ask what the hell this is, but doesn't manage a single word before Wonwoo crushes in close and—Christ, shit, fuckfuck _fuck_ — _kisses_ him.

Shock freezes Mingyu in place, or maybe it's the weight of Wonwoo's body pressing him hard against the uncomfortable edge of the bureau, or Wonwoo's tongue sneaking past his lips, darting deep and tasting of vodka.

Mingyu breathes a startled sound into his mouth as Wonwoo moans eagerly, hands doing their best to divest Mingyu of his shirt without undoing a single button. 

It takes Mingyu a moment—a very _long_ moment, to work his hands between them, pressing his palms flat to Wonwoo's chest so he can gently push him away.

Wonwoo subsides with reluctance, still hovering close. He peers up at Mingyu with clouded eyes—desire or alcohol, Christ maybe both—and Mingyu's breath lodges painfully in his throat.

There's damning heat in his own blood, as his body reacts to Wonwoo's proximity—to the _kiss_ , the hard muscles beneath his hands, the unmistakable offer in Wonwoo's eyes.

Mingyu never expected to see him again, and he certainly never expected _this_.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mingyu says unsteadily, because he thinks someone should be pointing that out. Bruised ribs and puncture wounds tend to make everything more difficult. Sex, for example.

Wonwoo blinks up at him slowly, slower with each passing second and Mingyu knows the long day, the pain, and his injuries are all catching up with him.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re injured. Maybe a little bit in shock too.” Mingyu huffs.

He can see the flash of surprise in Wonwoo's eyes, the moment he realizes what Mingyu is saying.

"Oh, _please_ —save it." Wonwoo is glaring now, peering up at Mingyu like he's trying to look straight through his soul. "I'm fine. You fixed me up great. You’re not taking advantage, so will you kindly stop having an attack of conscience and get naked.”

"Easy for you to say," Mingyu retorts dryly. "You're drunk. I bet if we have this conversation again tomorrow you'll sing a different tune." 

“You’re right. Tomorrow I’ll be pissed off cause I didn’t get _laid_.” Wonwoo drawls.

He's clearly trying to put the weight of command into the words, but the vague slur undermines his efforts to an almost comedic degree.

Mingyu can't help it. He laughs. It's a jagged sound, half hysterical, and only makes Wonwoo look more put out. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re _slurring_.”

“So?” Wonwoo murmurs, his mouth on Mingyu's throat now, his hands working his trousers open. “Just—let me suck your dick. As a thank you. Or maybe you want to fuck me again?”

Mingyu catches his wrist and sidesteps the question in favour of an argument less likely to tear him apart. “Wonwoo, _pal_ , _buddy_ —almost stranger I slept with once then broke into my house—you need to lie down.”

“Okay. Then what?” Wonwoo asks.

“Then nothing. You’re still injured and drunk. I like my workplace affairs to be consensual.”

Wonwoo’s face is pinched and grey, conflicting emotions written in the lines of his mouth. He works his wrist free and reaches for Mingyu’s fly again.

“Stop being so noble you asshole.” Wonwoo says venomously and Mingyu feels a stab of genuine hurt.

Even doing the right thing makes him feel like crap.

“Yes, that’s right— _I’m_ the asshole. Time for bed.” Mingyu huffs, grabbing Wonwoo under the arm and steering him towards the bed. Manhandling Wonwoo around is starting to feel familiar. Laying him out on top of the bed, likewise.

Wonwoo’s eyes flutter weakly while Mingyu is still leaning over him, trying to undress him as clinically as possible.

They’re face to face, close enough that Mingyu can feel the faint heat of Wonwoo’s breath.

“Just let me,” Wonwoo says, hand straying to Mingyu’s open collar.

“No,” Mingyu says, catching his wrist and pinning it to the bed.

Mingyu starts to stand up, but Wonwoo puts up a hand and catches loose hold of his shirt. It’s not much of a grip--he could pull free if he tried. But he doesn’t. He puts his hands back on the cover beside Wonwoo’s shoulders, and waits.

“Why are you helping me?” Wonwoo says. He’s frowning again, but he doesn’t look panicked or angry. He looks as if he’s just remembered something strange about himself. “Why haven’t you called the cops?”

For a moment, Mingyu is caught without an answer.

He knows exactly why he’s not calling the cops, but _why_ isn’t he calling Seungcheol, or Soonyoung or putting a bullet through Wonwoo’s head and rolling his limp body up in the carpet. _That_ —he really has no logical answer for.

“I don’t know...guess I’m just a nice guy,” Mingyu laughs.

Wonwoo’s still holding onto his shirt. His face has more colour in it now, and his eyelids look heavy. His eyes glassy. He’s starting to slip.

“We’re not friends,” Wonwoo says, but Mingyu doesn’t think it’s tailored to hurt.

“Not as such, no.”

“But you patched me up.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Wonwoo’s eyes are dark, his eyelids falling. A smile curves the corner of his mouth. Mingyu is conscious, again, of Wonwoo’s breath on his face. The light, almost unconscious hold that Wonwoo has on him.

“You should go to sleep,” Mingyu says again, “We’ll talk in the morning.” But Wonwoo’s eyes are already closed and he’s drooling into the pillow; the unselfconsciousness of the severely exhausted.

Carefully, Mingyu disengages himself. His back twinges when he stands up.

He walks away from the bed, goes into the bathroom, and closes the door. Stands staring at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks himself.

* * *

Jun cruises more or less in the same tired loop around the city, waiting for more directions from the prick in the back.

He’d established a few hours ago that his captor had to be choosing the most circuitous routes possible for reasons that had _nothing_ to do with losing a potential tail and all to do with not knowing where to go.

Which would be great if his passenger was a paying customer and likely to leave him an outstanding Uber review for this _endless_ tour of Seoul, but not so awesome when Jun’s lost a day’s work, has bills to pay and still has a gun aimed at the back of his head.

The sun has completely set now, and the afternoon heat has faded into an early evening chill that makes him roll up the windows to ward against it. Stores are closing, and bars and restaurants are lighting up. People are lined up outside, smoking cigarettes and waiting for tables, greeting each other with laughter and shouts.

Everyone is winding down—except for Jun, and he’s beginning to feel it now, the stress and toil of the day. His eyes get heavier with each blink.

He lowers his speed and drives carefully, aware that dizziness is not a condition that's encouraged when operating a high-powered motor vehicle, and tries not to think about how fabulous it would be to fall asleep at the wheel.

“ _Dude_ ….You need a plan.” Jun says, for what feels like the hundredth time.

His captor grunts something unimpressed from the backseat, where he's been wedged miserably against the door since Jun confiscated his Happy Meal toy for spilling his Cola on the seat earlier.

“There’s gotta be someplace I could take you. A safehouse or an apartment or something. Someplace you can lay low.”

The man doesn’t say anything, clearly still undecided what he’s going to do next or where they’re going. Not sure who he can trust— _maybe_?

He’s shit at hiding what is going on in his head, even if Jun isn’t exactly fluent in all his silences.

Jun suspects without his constant prodding and interference, the man would be happy enough to continue driving around Seoul until they’re both old and grey.

“I can’t keep driving like this. I’ve been driving since 5 am this morning.” Jun groans. He glances over to see how his passenger will take this. His passenger takes it by opening his mouth, then shutting it abruptly. He looks guilty enough that Jun thinks he can convince him if he pushes a little more.

Jun rubs his hand over his face. “I’m not trying to be difficult, just injecting a little _reality_ into our situation. I’m exhausted dude, I need rest or I might fall asleep and mount the curb here. So, can you just _decide_ what you’re doing so I can go home? I want to take a shower, get into bed, take of my clothes.”

The man catches his eye in the rear-view mirror, and snorts. “In that order?”

“This is not the time for you to develop a sense of humour asshole.” Jun mutters, but he puts his eyes back on the road. “I’m too tired to appreciate it.”

The guy kind of glares at him, but it's lacking its usual challenging force. He looks tired too.

Eventually he sighs and says, “Pull the car over. You can nap while I keep watch.”

Jun frowns, but keeps his eyes on the road. “Keep watch? Don’t you want to nap too?”

The man makes a face where he's sprawled over the backseat and looks at Jun like he's an idiot. “What? So you can take my gun while I’m sleeping and drive the car to a police station?”

Jun huffs out a breath. “You know what—I’m so tired I didn’t even think of that. Fine, we’ll do it your way.”

Jun follows the signs to the next parking lot and pulls the car into an empty space nestled under a tree. A quick glance around tells him that they’ve pulled into a public park, nothing around but trees and picnic tables and the glow of the headlights until Jun switches them off.

There’s not enough room in the car to sleep comfortably, not even when Jun puts back the seat, but he accepts some shut eye is better than nothing.

“I know this place looks innocent enough, but this isn’t the safest part of town.” Jun says, as he reclines his seat all the way back to a more sleep friendly position. Casting an eye down his passenger’s form—he finds the man is still annoyingly attractive even upside down. “Make sure you don’t actually fall asleep cause someone might jack my car.”

The man shifts sideways in the back and kicks his feet up, leather creaking quietly underneath him. “Is that even possible? Jacking a car that’s already been jacked?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Jun nods, toeing off his boots. “It’s called double jacking. Or Jack—jacking, jacking _squared.”_

The man’s face briefly twitches into something deeply amused. He looks out his window, and when he looks back there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. “That sounds weirdly...sexual.”

Jun's mouth twitches at that last word. 

“ _Please_ —don’t talk to me about sex right now.” He groans, shutting his eyes briefly. Then decides he should probably clarify “You’ve disturbed my nightly routine which—I’ll have you know—involves a nice jerking off session at the end of a long day.”

The man smirks; Jun doesn’t need to look at him to _know_ it. 

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with that.” he clucks, a little mocking, but not cruel.

And damned if that didn't almost sound like an invitation in Jun’s head.

“Who says you can’t?” Jun asks, shifting up onto his elbows. He turns his head to raise an eyebrow at his captor. “ _You_ —or the kidnappers moral guidebook? Cause last time I checked—you don’t have one, so there’s really no good reason why you can’t offer me a helping hand here. You kind of owe me, and an orgasm _always_ helps me get right to sleep.”

The man holds his gaze, steady, but Jun still has no idea what he's thinking. There's a long pause, long enough that Jun starts to worry that maybe he's pushed too far, and _yes_ , maybe suggesting your kidnapper _service_ you is the very definition of pushing it. But the guy hasn’t said _no_.

Then the man makes a quiet noise, something low and strained and _considering_ and pushes forward in his seat to whisper in Jun’s ear:

“If you’ve got energy for sex—you’ve got energy to keep driving this car. What’s it going to be?”

“Eugh. You’re no fun.” says Jun, letting his head fall back onto the head rest. Rolling onto his side to face the door, he shuts his eyes and says around a cracking yawn, “Goodnight grumpy.”

He pretends to sleep for a few minutes, listening carefully to what his passenger does. The man drinks some water, then fiddles with the bottlecap. He toys with the safety on his gun, flicking it on and off, drums his fingers a little against the window. Finally, there’s a quiet sigh and the sound of clothing rustling—then Jun feels the weight and heat of a jacket settling over his shoulders.

“ _Aww,_ you’re the sweetest.” Jun mumbles sleepily.

The man inhales, one quick noise, like Jun's caught him by surprise by still being awake.

“Shut your face.” The words are grumbled from overhead.

Jun falls asleep smiling.

* * *

Mingyu half expects Wonwoo to be gone in the morning, but he’s still there next to him in bed, lying on his back with his hands clasped loosely on top of his stomach. Mingyu wonders if he’s slept at all, or if he’s been lying there like that all night, staring at the ceiling and planning on smothering him to death with his pillow. 

Mingyu stretches, stifling a grunt at the stiffness in his back. Wonwoo rolls his head to the side to look at him, his raised eyebrow says everything Mingyu is already thinking

“Err—good morning,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at him, as if waiting for him to come up with something more _interesting_. Mingyu barely resists the urge to kick him underneath the blankets.

There’s no trace of the fever-hot hunger from earlier, no anger or grief or anything, really. But his hair is sticking out in about a hundred different directions at once and it’s a little adorable.

“How are you feeling?” Mingyu says, grasping for something else to break the silence.

Wonwoo glances down at the white gauze taped around his arms, and nods. “Better. Thanks.”

Mingyu pushes up to lean against the headboard. It’s getting bright outside, the orange light of the sunrise is burning through the flimsy curtain between the blackouts.

Wonwoo doesn’t shift from his position next to him. He seems to be chewing something over. For a moment Mingyu wonders if he’s really sober, if he knows where he is.

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says, before Mingyu can ask. “And I’m really sorry. About all of this.” He waves a hand, encompassing the room, the city outside the windows. “And, uh, I’m sorry about being weird last night. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He stops. His cheeks have reddened.

“Well,” Mingyu tries not to pause too egregiously. “—you were injured and very drunk. And I am very _irresistible_.”

Wonwoo’s ears have gone pink, and he rubs the palm of his hand against his thigh, an unconscious nervous tic. “Yeah, I guess.” He concedes.

They’re quiet for a while, breathing in tandem, against the sound of birdsong and traffic from outside. And then, Mingyu turns sideways on the bed so he can face Wonwoo, even though Wonwoo seems to be far more interested staring at his arms than at Mingyu for some reason.

“Wonwoo?” Mingyu pauses, inhales carefully. “Why did you come to me?”

He feels an instant stab of guilt when the words make Wonwoo's face shutter up tightly. He looks momentarily remote now, and sits for a moment staring into space, looking as if he’s working on some difficult maths problem in his head.

“My contingency plan didn’t exactly work out.” He murmurs. 

Which _really_ doesn’t answer the question as to why he came _here_ —to Mingyu—and not gone to lick his wounds somewhere else. But it’s clear that Wonwoo’s not looking to discuss that right now.

“Did your contingency plan involve a _bomb_?”

“It involved a warehouse—that _happened_ to have a bomb planted inside it.” Wonwoo says, and gives a weak, humourless chuckle.

Mingyu dips his head and raises an eyebrow at him, “That doesn’t sound like a very good contingency plan.”

Wonwoo braces one hand against the bed and sits up. He moves shakily, cautiously, as if everything hurts. “It wasn’t my plan exactly. I’m just following orders.”

“Any ideas _who_ planted it?”

“No.” Wonwoo takes a deep, frustrated breath, lets his head hang for a second, then squares his shoulders and looks up. “I was kind of focusing on just staying on my feet and getting the hell out of there.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it might have been one of your crew? Maybe someone didn’t take too kindly to you walking out.” He’s not sure why it occurs to him to ask, or if he even really cares, but he can’t stop the question once it’s asked.

Wonwoo frowns, shakes his head like he’s trying to rattle the thought right out of his brain.

“No. They _wouldn’t_. They’re not like that. They’re…” He doesn’t continue, leaving it to Mingyu to supply the rest of that sentence.

_Loyal? Stupid? Too busy planning ineffectual heists?_

“You seem awfully sure about that.”

“I am. They’re _good_ guys.” Wonwoo says, scrubbing at his eyes.

There’s a long line of bare skin showing on his stomach where his shirt has ridden up, and Mingyu unconsciously slides his tongue across his lips at the sight

“Hmm. You guys do seem to be _pretty_ loyal to each other.” Mingyu murmurs, and Wonwoo’s expression is abruptly bewildered. 

“How would _you_ know?” Wonwoo asks, blinking at Mingyu, squinting, suspicious.

Mingyu’s back is starting to twinge. He straightens up for a moment, rolls his shoulders to try to work out the tightening knots of tension. He’s managed roughly three hours of sleep and he’s going to feel like ten kinds of hell later. He resettles a bare centimetre or two to the right, so that he can just feel the hard point of Wonwoo’s elbow grazing his forearm.

“We—uh—caught one of your crew. The _little_ one.” Mingyu states, bluntly cutting to the heart of the matter.

Wonwoo gasps. “Jihoon?”

“So that’s his name.” Mingyu snorts. It’s a good thing Wonwoo wasn’t captured instead, cause it doesn’t take much for him to start volunteering names. “Huh. You know—he wouldn’t even let _that_ much slip when we were interrogating him.”

Wonwoo winces. “Shit. Fuck! Is he--”

“Don’t worry. He’s alright.” Mingyu interjects with a chuckle. “A little bruised but alive. And he drove off into the sunset—$400,000 richer.”

Wonwoo, startled, takes a second to reorient himself. “What?”

Mingyu tries not to sigh. “It’s a long story.”

Just as he’s opening his mouth to continue—a cell phone goes off, buzzing somewhere down on the floor.

“Hold on,” Mingyu says, and rolls over, leaning halfway off the bed to rummage through the heaps of discarded menswear on the floor.

“It’s my boss,” Mingyu looks sideways at Wonwoo, expecting him to kick up a fuss. “I should take this.”

Wonwoo waves a hand, magnanimously conceding to the inevitable, and Mingyu retreats to the corner of the room to answer the call. 

“Good morning sir.” He answers, trying his hardest to sound alert.

“Hi—Mingyu. _Ah_ —did I wake you?” Seungcheol says stiffly. “I know you got in pretty late last night.”

“No—uh, no I was already awake. I was just reviewing CCTV footage.” Mingyu says, managing to keep his voice serious, professional. If Mingyu were Seungcheol, he would never suspect he had spent most of the night patching up one of the men on his most wanted list. 

A sigh across the line. “You’re still working on that?”

“Of course.” Mingyu counters quickly. He pauses, takes a measured breath. “No rest until I get the job done.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment.

Mingyu waits for the polite dismissal. Seungcheol always calls, but he never lingers; any moment now he’ll say _, ‘I need you to do this,’_ and in a few hours Mingyu will be there, and that will be that until the next time Seungcheol tracks him down for an update.

“Look—” Seungcheol begins suddenly, interrupting Mingyu’s mental figuring of the odds that he could call in sick today without acquiring any significant damage to his person. “I’m sorry about how I reacted yesterday. It wasn’t your fault that guy got into the building, and I put the onus on you when I shouldn’t have.”

Wary, something verging on dread building low in his gut, Mingyu tenses.

Seungcheol doesn’t sound right. He sounds frustrated and a bit flustered, nothing like his steely calm in crisis situations.

Mingyu’s surging paranoia isn’t helped when Seungcheol goes on to say--“I hope you can _forgive_ me, Gyu.”

“I—uh,” Mingyu falters, thrown by the question. His brain starts throwing up reasons for Seungcheol’s sudden strange behaviour and there can only be _one_ logical conclusion.

“Oh my god—are you _dying_?” Mingyu gasps.

Seungcheol obviously smothers a laugh, “No—no. I just had to let you know I felt bad about what happened—I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

Mingyu’s making a face that he knows is entirely lost on Seungcheol, miles away on the other end of the phone. It’s not entirely lost on Wonwoo, however, who smothers a laugh into the pillow. 

“Oh my god—you are dying! Is it cancer? It’s cancer, isn’t it! It’s a brain tumour! I knew it, that’s why you’ve been acting so _weird_ lately. The tumour is pressing on your brain and making you crazy! Oh god! Why are you telling me this over the phone!”

“I’m not dying!” Seungcheol yells, then mutters something that sounds like, _what have I done to deserve this_. He sounds slightly less agitated when he huffs and says, “I just wanted you to know I care about you. You’re one of the few people I care about actually. And if I do things sometimes that seem unfair—it’s because I care. Don’t take them personally, okay?”

Mingyu allows himself to relax, sitting down against the bed with his heart still pounding wildly in his chest.

“Okay.” He says. His voice sounds remote even to him, “Thank you, sir.”

“Take the day off, yeah. Rest up and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Seungcheol says, and there's the faint click of him ringing off.

“Who was that?” Wonwoo asks. He’s slumped on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging. There’s small specks of blood seeping through the bandages on his arms, Mingyu notices. They’ll need changing soon.

“My boss.”

Wonwoo looks up, “What did he want?”

Mingyu thinks that over for a moment, scratching idly at his three-day stubble “I’m not sure—but my gut tells me it’s not good.”

* * *

Jeonghan wakes the next morning with his stomach unsettled from having prescription strength analgesics stuffed into with not much food.

The room is uncomfortably bright thanks to the west-facing windows, and his aching skull protests the red-tinged light. The pain in his shoulder throbs in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat, and all he wants is to burrow completely beneath the covers.

A throat clears from the direction of the door, and Jeonghan cranes his neck to look.

Jisoo stands just inside the room, wearing a smile on his face and holding a tray in his hands.

Jeonghan is happy to see him, which makes him think that he should definitely go back to sleep, because obviously he’s _delirious_.

"You look better this morning. Did you sleep well?" Jisoo asks, easing farther into the room.

He sits on the edge of the bed, setting the tray down on the nightstand. Without being asked, he helps Jeonghan sit upright against the headboard.

This new position costs Jeonghan some measure of his tightly swaddled warmth, but he doesn't complain. “I slept as well as I could, _considering_.”

"Here." Jisoo hands him the bowl—an unappetizing amalgam of mush so thick the spoon stands upright of its own accord. "I made you root vegetable soup. It’s a family recipe, very nourishing.”

Jeonghan quirks an eyebrow then jangles his cuffed wrist against the headboard. “How exactly am I going to hold the bowl _and_ a spoon at the same time with my good arm restrained?”

“Ah, sorry.” Jisoo grimaces, pulling the bowl back. He takes hold of the spoon, spoons up a mouthful of soup, lets the excess drip off, then holds it up to Jeonghan’s mouth.

“Seriously?” Jeonghan laughs, eyes darting between the spoon and Jisoo’s face. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just— _uncuffed_ me?”

“No. It’s either this—or a _funnel_.” Jisoo says, then pauses. He looks disturbingly amused. “Would you _prefer_ a funnel?”

Jeonghan can’t think of anything to say to that, so he opens his mouth and lets Jisoo feed him.

And Jisoo _does_ , happily.

The man is actually feeding him. With every spoonful, he gently blows on the liquid, making sure it is the right temperature before offering it.

“You really need to uncuff me after this.” Jeonghan says, after a few mouthfuls of companionable silence. “I have to go. My crew are waiting for me.”

Jisoo’s eyes look heavenward, like he despairs of his life.

“Well they’re just going to have to wait a while longer. You need rest!” says Jisoo, perhaps a bit more harshly than normal.

Jeonghan’s so startled he can only stare.

All this hospitality is beginning to have a sinister feel to it. The seclusion, the cuffs, the spoon-feeding and unnatural kindness; Jisoo’s starting to give him Kathy Bates in _Misery_ vibes.

“You’re not going to use a sledgehammer to break my ankles if I try to leave, are you?” Jeonghan asks, squinting at his host.

Jisoo freezes with the spoon in mid-air simply _looks_ at him, bland and unflinching. “Did you just compare me to Annie Wilkes in Misery?”

Jeonghan gives him an apologetic look. “It’s a good movie.”

“I only read the book actually.” Jisoo shrugs, dunking the spoon into the bowl. “Didn’t much care for it.”

He lifts up the spoon with a piece of potato balanced on it, holds it up to Jeonghan’s mouth—not blowing to cool it this time. Jeonghan sips at the spoon, burns his lips and tongue, hisses air around the red-hot coal of the potato in his mouth, manages to bite down. "Of course, you didn’t," he agrees, fanning his mouth, swallowing. "Probably because you saw yourself projected in the main antagonist. That’s why you’re keeping me cuffed to the bed, you see yourself in her.”

“Perhaps. I _am_ very tempted to spill this soup all over you.” says Jisoo, unrepentant, dimpling.

Jeonghan can feel his brows ticking upward. “Well—if it’s any consolation, you’re much more attractive than Kathy Bates.”

Jisoo laughs without amusement, then whacks him on the nose with the spoon. “That’s not much of a compliment. I don’t think Kathy Bates is anyone’s universal standard for attractiveness.”

Jeonghan grins. He's quite certain there was something he meant to say next, but it's lost. Instead he slumps back against the headboard and allows Jisoo to continue feeding him. 

Once Jeonghan finishes eating, Jisoo set the tray down and fetches a glass of water and another couple of pills.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Jeonghan begins, draining the glass and handing it back. “What _is_ a Sunday School teacher doing with a pair of handcuffs?”

Jisoo doesn’t spare him a glance, but he does flush bright red.

“Would you look at the time—I’m going to be late for choir practice.” He murmurs, grabbing the tray and scuttling out of the room quickly.

Jeonghan shakes his head and sighs.

He's not used to flirting that goes nowhere. 

* * *

Jihoon hasn't slept in two days. Not really. At least not for any substantial length of time or with any degree of real restfulness. He dozed off for maybe an hour while sitting in a chair with a gun on his lap, waiting for the front door to burst open and someone to blow his brains out. But nobody came, so he awoke angry and stiff, his neck muscles aching from the odd angle at which he'd fallen asleep.

48 hours isn't a terribly long time, but it's enough to wear Jihoon’s nerves out. Planning for an attack by a vengeful mobster's mooks is _exhausting_.

He’d bypassed the crew’s rendezvous point and drove straight to his own safe house—because he couldn’t take any chances that he was being followed. He’d ripped open the duffel bag the minute he’d gotten through the door, spread the contents out over the coffee table and searched it thoroughly. He’d checked through each stack of bills, then the lining of the bag—for bugs, wires, tracking devices—anything. But it was all clean.

Did the Mafia just let him walk out with £400,000 in cash, no strings attached?Apparently so. But the idea's bugging him too, a frayed bit of thought, a loose end. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Jihoon says out loud to the empty room.

With no counter attack in sight, he stays holed up in his apartment, not taking any calls and trying to make a plan. Ideally, he supposes, with this kind of money he'd be sitting on a tropical beach somewhere, soaking in the rays and sipping a fruity cocktail. Except he's not much of a drinker, and he hates beaches, actually.

He even thinks about how he could _invest_ his money instead. Just like any other hard-working guy, he has pipe dreams because even criminals know there comes a time where you decide to tap out and settle down. But he’s only twenty-four, still at the prime of his career and those pipe dreams are a long way off for now.

So there's nothing really left to do but figure out why he still has his head on his shoulders, because something about this shit-show of a heist is definitely not adding up. 

The first thing he does is search the bank’s website, which is something he did during his preliminary research anyway, but now he digs _deeper._

Scrolling all the way to the bottom of the page, underneath the banking jargon and testimonials of satisfied businessmen is the copyright information: _Part of the Choi Industries Group ǁ ©Copyright Choi Industries ǁ 2002-20018. All rights reserved._

Choi industries?

Why does that sound….. _familiar_?

The _second_ thing Jihoon does is Google Choi Industries and— _hello_ —there he is, Hot Mob Boss in all his sharp suited, slicked back hair glory. The most recent picture available is from last week, of him with the Mayor at some charity gala where he’s donated a whopping ten million dollars towards a new hospital ward.

A generous guy all round it seems.

Jihoon hovers the mouse over the picture until the caption pops up: Choi Seungcheol with Mayor—

_Wait a fucking second……_

“Choi Seungcheol?” Jihoon repeats, before it hits him.

Jihoon feels like his whole world has spun upside-down, or at least rotated. Like the gravity that’s kept him grounded for the last few years has suddenly abdicated and he has to stuff his face into the nearest cushion to muffle his scream of “ _WHY_!”

It’s a sad testament to Jihoon’s shitty luck that of all the mob bosses in Korea, it’s Choi— _please not my kneecaps_ —Seungcheol’s toes they’ve tread on.

Did Jeonghan _know_ this?

Did he _know_ whose money they were trying to take?

Probably not, considering the intel they’d gotten was sketchy as hell and the client who’d approached them for the job had remained largely anonymous.

Usually Jihoon knows better than to accept a job unexamined. He has a complete working protocol, actually, for dealing with Jeonghan and his wacky plans, because for all his merits and eventual success, Jeonghan’s last few jobs have been, quite honestly, one fuck-up after another.

Jihoon curses and continues with his research; shifting blame won't actually help him any.

After sorting through a colourful series of GQ magazine photo shoots and a far dryer sequence of Economist profiles, he has amassed countless pages of notes and _way_ too many open tabs on his browser.

Of course, he can't be sure how much of it is fabricated and how much is true, it’s hard to say with a man like Choi Seungcheol. But here is what he's gathered so far:

Choi Seungcheol, 29-years-old (will be 30 in August), grew up in Daegu, his father (deceased) made his money in the gambling business (read as _Loan Shark_ ) and owned several book-keepers dotted through-out the city (Underground gambling dens? _Probably_ ).

Seungcheol started running his father’s company when he was just seventeen years old (Holy shit), and within the year had quadrupled the company assets through a massive restructuring of the business and 'aggressive' expansion tactics (no prizes for guessing what that means). His company— _Choi Industries_ —is an umbrella for all his other lucrative business ventures, that include but are not limited to: banking, broadcasting, transport, real estate, construction and tobacco. 

Jihoon both admires and resents his success on principle. Not that Jihoon _pays_ attention to the hamster wheel industry of the world, but if a guy can build something up from the ashes—it gives him hope for his own sad little life.

Although he knows not to expect it, Jihoon’s still surprised that there isn’t a lot of scandalous headlines associated with Choi Seungcheol’s name in the press. Either the man runs a very tight ship—or he’s intimidating enough that nobody wants to broadcast his dodgy dealings.

Most of the articles he _can_ find are just your run of the mill gossip column fodder: vague on the truly personal details, hella outlandish and superficial as fuck.

He has a hanger full of private planes apparently, as well as two yachts docked in the Carribbean and a collection of art on loan to the fucking _Louvre._ When he's not making an appearance at the Met Gala or the Cannes film festival, he's getting photographed for his various _charitable_ endeavours or cropping up in Seoul's Best Dressed lists. One article claims he's been officially out of the closet for over a decade and has dated a string of high-profile male models, but has yet to find "the one". Which if true, then... ~~OH GOD YES!~~ is absolutely _none_ of Jihoon's business.

None whatsoever.

So what if the guy's gay...it's not like... _Jihoon_ ever stood a chance. Seungcheol, every source confirms, is very handsome, very eligible and probably, _very out of his league._

And also kind of _terrifying_ —Jihoon decides to add, shutting his laptop already feeling like there’s a target painted between his shoulder blades.

So fucking terrifying.

It soon becomes apparent he’s been strategically cornered by the Mafia. Not the way he would have expected, no. They haven’t surrounded his building or tapped his phone or anything, but they’ve still effectively trapped him. He can’t go back to his old crew without raising a few suspicious eyebrows, can’t head home without endangering everyone he knows and he can’t turn to the authorities without getting arrested.

He’s isolated, alone— _adrift_ , and the worst thing is…that smoking hot son of a bitch probably knew this when he let him drive off with $400,000 dollars.

He _knew_ Jihoon would have no choice but to return.

* * *

It’s five minutes past 11:30, and Vernon is _still_ being kept waiting.

He shoots the assistant behind the high desk a dirty look, and briefly wonders how pissed the Captain would be if he just blew off this meeting and sent a memo instead. Vernon has _six_ time sensitive cases on his desk and a stack of reports waiting for him back at the station, he doesn’t have time for this.

Standing, he waves his badge at the security guard and strides past the assistant, towards the corridor that leads down to a pair of massive doors. Faintly, he hears her scramble from her seat and hurry after him.

“Sir, you can’t -”

He turns to shoot her a disdainful look, one he’s perfected over time and over far, _far_ too many interrogations. She quells instantly.

Vernon pushes the doors open, and he’s greeted by a cavernous room, a lone desk on a raised dais at the end by a bank of windows.

There’s a figure standing behind the desk, addressing someone cowering before it.

They’re too far away to overhear what’s going on, but from the looks of things, guy #2 is in deep shit.

The assistant scampers forward, trying to make it look like she didn’t just fail miserably at her job as guard dog. “Chwe Vernon, Seoul Police Department, sir,” she announces.

The figure nods, dismissing her, and the assistant shoots Vernon a glare before darting out, shutting the doors behind her. They close with a firm _thunk,_ and Vernon swears he hears the man before the desk whimper, the sound carrying across the expanse of the room.

Vernon strolls towards the dais, taking his time to look around.

As he approaches the desk, Choi Seungcheol spares him a glance. He cuts an imposing figure, towering over the dude who’s about to be shitcanned. Vernon meets his gaze head-on, one eyebrow raised.

What? He hates being kept waiting, and this is about making a point.

It’s not as if _Seungcheol’s_ time is more important than _his_. 

The look Seungcheol spares him turns intrigued, and he nods once in greeting.

Vernon returns the nod with a small smile, settling himself onto one of the guest chairs before the desk, legs crossed. He props an elbow up against the arm rest, and rests his chin on a downturned hand.

Seungcheol redirects his attention to the unfortunate man before him.

“We’ll continue this later, you may leave.”

The man sputters something unintelligible and bows quickly before scampering out the door.

“Apologies for the delay.” Seungcheol says, voice dripping with false sweetness as he retakes his seat. “But the last 48 hours have been rather hectic since the robbery, as you can imagine. I usually don’t conduct these meetings myself, so I’ve had to make arrangements to schedule you in today when you requested it.”

Vernon tilts his head in acknowledgement. Yeah—he doesn’t want to be here either, but there you go. “Thank you for your time Mr Choi. I know you usually have one of your staff—liaise with the police department on these matters, but the captain was sure you wanted to be personally informed that we’re going to be _extending_ our investigation.”

“Is that so.” Seungcheol’s tone is dry as paper.

Vernon draws in a breath. “Yes. The robbery highlighted a few— _concerns_.”

If Seungcheol has found any of this at all surprising, he isn’t letting on. He is still gazing at Vernon, disturbingly blank.

“Nothing was taken.” Seungcheol says, in a tone that clearly adds _you idiot_ at the end of the sentence. “All the money has been accounted for and nobody has been apprehended, so what aspect of your investigation is concerning you?”

“Our initial investigation has revealed some discrepancies, and the chief of police has requested a full report.” Vernon explains with a careless shrug.

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, a study in sharp-lined, cold-burning fury. Vernon studies his profile, the slight flaring of his nostrils, the fullness of his lips thinning in displeasure.

He suspects Choi Seungcheol has spent a lot of money tailoring himself this sharp suited, debonair businessman identity—has even fooled many people into believing in it. He’s made a career of pretending to be anyone but himself, and anyone who tries to peel back his layers isn’t going to make it to the centre without a struggle.

But Vernon sees right through him. Knows he’s just a violent, bloodthirsty thug underneath. Even now he looks like he’s using every ounce of his will power in resisting the urge to beat Vernon’s skull in with the heavy glass paperweight on his desk.

He’s _that_ kind of man.

“What kind of discrepancies?” Seungcheol asks, after Vernon had counted out two chilly minutes of silence. 

Vernon offers an apologetic smile, though he’s not feeling the slightest bit sorry. “I’m not at liberty to elaborate at this moment. But we’ll be keeping you informed as our investigation continues.”

If Seungcheol is disappointed in the lack of a straight answer, he doesn’t show it. He simply stands when Vernon does, and offers his companies full cooperation.

Vernon can't wait to nail him-though he appreciates that's a way off yet.

* * *

When the detective leaves, Seungcheol spins his chair towards the window and stares at the view, considering possibilities.

Problems always come in three’s. The heist was the first, the break in at HQ the second—this prolonged investigation is clearly the third.

He’s not sure what tip-off the police have gotten this time, but with the way things have been going lately he’s beginning to wonder if they even _need_ one. His activities, entrepreneurial or otherwise, have _always_ drawn the legal authorities attention, but if it’s for _another_ reason. If the cogs in his own system are turning on him….

Well—Seungcheol's going to need to tighten up his network when this investigation is over.

A quiet knock on the door interrupts his musing, and Seungcheol sits upright, faint frown marring his brow. 

“Sir?” Seungkwan whispers-mumbles once he enters the room.

“What is it now?” Seungcheol demands, his temper crackling along the edges. 

“Uh—erm, sorry to disturb you.” Seungkwan raises his hands, palms up, the universal gesture for _don’t shoot the messenger._ “But you were right. He’s back.”

“ _Who’s_ back?” Seungcheol responds, before he cottons on to _who_ Seungkwan means. “Oh, _really_? Well—great.”

Seungcheol stands abruptly, then sits, then stands again—mind in disarray as he tries to decide how best to greet his guest.

What the fuck is he doing? Why is he so anxious?

He forces himself to remain standing and takes a calming breath, brushing out the non-existent wrinkles on his shirt.

“Uh—how do I look?” He asks Seungkwan, who looks more bemused than anything,

“ _Rich_?”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Send him in.”

Seungkwan nods, sliding back out the door before pushing it open for the guest to enter.

There’s a second of hesitation before Biker Boy appears in the doorway and Seungcheol's chest seizes.

 _Sweet fuck_ —Seungcheol’s memories of the boy don’t do him justice. In person he’s something else; his mouth stern, jaw set, eyes hard, ass—rather generously proportioned for his size, Seungcheol thinks—all combine to form the perfect little package.

 _Biker Boy_.

Dammit—Seungcheol really _needs_ a name to go with that face, _something_ to groan out when he fantasizes about bending the guy over his desk, yanking down his jeans and spearing him with his di…

_Okay, okay—this isn’t a good time for an erection._

It’s nearly impossible to focus properly, but Seungcheol blinks rapidly and forces himself to pay attention. 

Biker Boy crosses the room, slow, careful steps that bring him closer to where Seungcheol remains standing behind his desk. His eyes dart around the space, taking everything in, likely searching for escape routes and assessing threats. Clever. Thinking ahead.

The duffle bag Seungcheol had sent him off with is clasped tightly in his right hand, his left is clenched into a fist. He appears unarmed, which was probably hard for him to do—but definitely a wise decision.

“Well, hello again. How can I help you today?” Seungcheol says, flashing on his most charming smile. He jerks his head towards the two visitor’s chairs placed before his desk before taking a seat in his own. “Finally decided to take up my offer and open a savings account with us? Are rates are very competitive.” he says, aiming for light-heartedness.

His attempt falls flat, because Biker Boy visibly stiffens, then drops the duffle at the foot of the desk.

He looks blank. Except for how he doesn’t, except for the tiniest tells Seungcheol can fish out. Whiteness around the eyes, darkness under them – has he not slept? Seungcheol can’t help but notice some movement in the lips that could be called a quiver on a lesser person.

“Stop fucking me about.” Biker Boy’s voice is low, rough, and there’s a twitch in his hands as he says it, knuckles whitening from the strength of that clench. “Why are you doing this? What—what do you _want_ from me?”

He sounds so wary, Seungcheol has to wonder what the kid's criminal background is. Prostitution, he'd wager; possibly with a short stint in Juvenile detention since those guys tend to be the most paranoid when it comes to unexpected generosity in Seungcheol’s experience.

He can’t imagine the Biker Boy’s childhood was full of rainbows and puppies either.

There was probably a tower Hamlet, graffiti and brick and the urine-stench of the stairwells, water for breakfast when there wasn’t any milk, poured over cornflakes and swallowed with cotton-tongued staunchness. Trousers and ambitions too big for his hometown.

Seungcheol can picture it so easily, all too familiar with the art of cultivating aspirations.

He knows better than to mention this however—there’s a place for theatrics, and this isn’t it.

Ignoring his schedule for the day, Seungcheol rises from his chair, adjusts his jacket, then rounds the table. He tries to keep his body language casual, non-threatening as he perches himself off the edge of it, near his visitor. 

“I didn’t get to introduce myself last time we met. I’m--” Seungcheol begins, and Biker Boy cuts in, “I _know_ who you are.”

When Seungcheol gives him a questioning look, Biker Boy swallows, then shrugs.

“I researched you. Trying to figure out _why_ you’d just _let_ me walk out with all that money.”

Biker Boy’s voice is low, but the words are bitten out. The look he turns on Seungcheol is probably supposed to be hostile but it just looks desperate. The look of a man adrift in chaos, clawing for order.

“And for the record, I didn’t know it was your bank when I accepted the job. I don’t think any of us did. Not—not that it matters anymore.”

Seungcheol gives his Biker Boy a slow, deliberate once over, considering his next move. A man who knows what he’s up against, fears it with every fibre in his body and is ready to face it head on like that, _that's_ a man worth having. 

“Right, then,” Seungcheol says, clapping his hands together. He smiles to take the edge off. “Have lunch with me?”

Biker Boy pulls a face that knocks about ten years off his age. He blinks up at Seungcheol for a second, a deer in the headlights, lost. 

“ _W-what_?”


	6. As Long As I Got My Suit And Tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 Playlist  
> [Tony Bennett- Rags to Riches](https://youtu.be/Y22tIJ6toPY)  
> [The Crystals- He's Sure The Boy I Love](https://youtu.be/5fssD9Da7Xw)

Jihoon accepts Seungcheol’s invitation to lunch with him, because _honestly_ , it seems like the only safe thing to do, and Seungcheol takes him to _Pierre Gagnaire_ , one of the fanciest restaurants in Seoul.

“I don’t think they’re going to let me in.” Jihoon murmurs, combing his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I’m not exactly _dressed_ appropriately.”

Seungcheol makes a noise, quick and careless, like it's not important.

As they stroll past a queue at least fifty people long, Jihoon recalls reading an article about how you need a reservation six-months in advance to even _hope_ to get a table. Not that it applies to Seungcheol, _obviously_ , who swans through the front door like he owns the place.

On second thought—he probably _does_.

It’s showboating, of course, bringing Jihoon here and Jihoon can’t help but feel radically undressed to be dining in such a place—never mind the split lip and black eye he's still nursing from the other day.

Competitive smirk on his face, Seungcheol gestures after the maitre’d, who leads them to a private section, a single table for two laid out.

It’s a taster menu, so they don’t have to order, and after a bottle of wine is brought to the table by a stuttering sommelier, they find themselves evaluating one another from across the table.

“So,” Seungcheol begins, lifting his glass. “You know who I am. The _polite_ thing to do would be to introduce yourself next. Tell me your name, a little about yourself. _”_

“Yes, that _would_ be the polite thing to do.” Jihoon retorts drily. Then leaves it there.

He focuses his attention on the vast array of silverware around his place setting instead; he’s always loved the idea of being able to afford to eat in a place like this, but it’s intimidating as fuck.

Almost as intimidating as the man seated across from him.

Seungcheol leans back, eye narrowed. He swirls the wine in his glass, raising it to inhale a whiff. Satisfied, he takes a sip.

“I was just hoping to refer to you with something other than—the man who tried to steal from me.”

Jihoon picks up his glass to take a sip, the Malbec sliding warm and velvety down his throat.

“Tried _and_ succeeded.” He says, setting his glass down before the tremors in his hand give him away.

“Are you _forgetting_ that I let you take that $400,00?” Seungcheol says mildly, looking at Jihoon with a gaze far sharper than his voice.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about your watch.” Jihoon says, pointedly raising his other arm. He tilts his wrist with a flourish so Seungcheol can see the chunky Rolex he’d slipped off his wrist earlier.

Seungcheol’s eyes turn hooded, but no less sharp. “When did you—”

“When you stepped out of the car.” Jihoon interrupts, drumming his fingers on the watch face, admiring the craftmanship. He turns the watch around a couple of times on his wrist, feeling out it’s weight and edges. “I was going to pick your wallet too—but then _I’d_ have to pay for lunch.”

Outwardly, Seungcheol still doesn’t react, but Jihoon feels Seungcheol’s eyes sliding over him. The weight of an unspoken threat presses against his skin, but it’s hardly a dissuasive sensation. It’s more like killing two birds with one stone: a chance to rile up this arrogant, rich prick that’s accompanied by the smug sense of victory that comes when Seungcheol gives him an approving nod and tugs his shirtsleeve over his now naked wrist.

“I’ll admit. That was impressive.” Seungcheol says, his hooded, serious eyes belying the flippancy of his tone. Fingers tapping on the table, he smiles, equal parts charming and distant, just a little vicious. “Not many people have the balls to steal from me—once, much less twice. Was the $400,000 not enough for you?”

Jihoon shifts his shoulders, dismissive. “I’m opportunistic. I take every opportunity I see, because who _knows_ when I’ll get it again.”

Holding Jihoon’s gaze, Seungcheol takes another sip from his glass, reclining in his seat. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Because I have a unique opportunity for you.”

Quirking an inquisitive brow, Jihoon unclasps the watch, preparing to hand it back—only for Seungcheol to stop him.

“Keep it.” He says, making a lofty, dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s yours now. You’ve earned it.”

Jihoon searches for something more to say, but before he finds it, the waiter returns with their first course.

Jihoon thought at the time that humouring Seungcheol wasn't such a bad idea. Especially if he got a nice juicy steak out of the deal, a luxury he hasn't permitted himself in some time. But steak is apparently too uncouth for this place. Instead, they’re served some mousse _thingy_ as a first course.

Jihoon doesn’t expect to enjoy it, but when he digs in—it’s fucking amazing. It’s light and foamy and delicate on his tongue and he cleans out the fragile glass cup it arrives in in short order. 

“You've already proven what you're capable of, so I’ll cut out the bullshit, then,” Seungcheol says, waving for the course to be taken away.

He leans forward, eyes intent, and Jihoon thinks he understands now how Seungcheol is so successful at what he does. He has this magnetic, charismatic quality about him. “I want you.” Seungcheol says.

Brows raised, Jihoon gapes. “That’s….” A little more direct than he’s used to. “….very flattering.”

Seungcheol treats him to a long, slow once-over, somehow managing to look casual while staring at Jihoon, contemplative. 

“From the minute I laid my eyes on you, I knew you’d be the perfect fit….” he purrs, then voice slipping back to its perfunctory, no-nonsense business tone, he adds. “…as my new head of security.”

“Huh?”

Seungcheol taps his fingers against his wine glass once, twice, as if he has all the time in the world. 

“The heist at the bank and—some other _recent_ events have highlighted the need for a complete re-haul of my security arrangements. I need someone trustworthy to keep their ear on the ground, to watch my back and protect my assets.”

“Hold up—you’re a—,” Jihoon pauses to glance around. He leans forward in his chair and drops his voice into a confiding whisper. “You’re a _mob boss_. The biggest I know. Don’t you have plenty of people protecting your ass?”

“Assets.” Seungcheol corrects.

“Assets—ass—same thing.” Jihoon dismisses quickly, “Aren’t there already people in your organization you employ for that specific purpose?”

Seungcheol runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplative, his eyes taking in the flow of people around them, unfocused and all-seeing. “I used to think so. But now—I’m not so sure.”

“What makes you think I’m the right candidate? I did try and steal from you less than 48 hours ago. I just stole your Rolex.”

Seungcheol gives him a crooked smile. “True. But I’m not looking for a guy with a squeaky clean reputation—just someone who can cast an evaluative eye over how I’m managing things and tell me where the potential leaks are. An outsider, a neutral party who doesn’t have any ties to the company.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose in disbelief. “That’s stupid.”

“Is it?” Seungcheol says, a flash of anger there and gone in his eyes, like lightning in the distance. An oncoming storm crackles in the air between them. “I spend most of my time surrounded by people who tell me what I want to hear. It’s not the truth—it’s not reliable, not objective. Try maintaining an empire when all the experts you hire don’t want to share their expertise because they’re afraid. I don't need a yes man, I need someone who’ll be honest, someone I can trust. That’s where you come in.”

“And you trust me?” Jihoon says, taken aback. He’d come prepared to beg for his life, maybe charm Seungcheol into showing some leniency, not to be asked to become his security consultant.

“You possess qualities I admire,” Seungcheol says, his eyes flickering over Jihoon's body again before looking away. “Loyalty being one of them. And frankly, I think you’re wasted on your current company. Putting your neck on the line for low level heists, that’s not your calling.”

Even though it’s a compliment, Jihoon thinks of denying it. He thinks of saying, _don’t underestimate my crew—_ because as far as Seungcheol knows, it’s just been one failed heist. So for Seungcheol to sound like he has Jihoon's number—is grating.

He can’t deny however that he likes the idea of branching out.

He's never questioned his position as second in command in Jeonghan’s crew, even though they haven’t always seen eye to eye on certain planning aspects and most of his ideas get shot down, Jihoon’s continued to follow his lead. But after seeing himself through the eyes of a stranger, he feels like the piece that doesn't fit. He’s a fork among spoons, a book in a pile of magazines; if he runs with a crew that consistently pick up jobs against his advice, can he truly belong with them?

In the end, Jihoon just shrugs.

Their second course arrives, a pair of perfectly seared Emperor scallops. 

Aware that Seungcheol is still watching him intently, Jihoon picks up his knife and fork, takes his first bite, and thinks. Seungcheol picks up his own cutlery, tucking in as well with perfect teeth and perfect table manners.

Jihoon can’t help but watch the way he holds his fork. He has big hands; wide palms, strong, thick fingers. Jihoon wishes he hadn't noticed.

“First,” Jihoon states, having made up his mind, “What’s in this for me?”

“Mmm, a man after my own heart.” Seungcheol pulls out his phone, makes a few quick taps, and hands it over to him. “I think this salary should suffice. You can have it paid in instalments or as a lump sum. It’s up to you.”

Reading the phone, Jihoon can feel his eyebrows rise of their own volition.

“That’s…a generous offer,” he allows.

It’s more than fucking _generous,_ it’s basically a bribe.

“I pay for only the best,” Seungcheol says, and the seductive timbre in his voice is back. “And that $400,000 you already have.” he shrugs, then smiles slowly. “Consider it your walking around money.”

Jihoon slides the phone back across the table to Seungcheol before polishing off the scallops. A waiter appears at his side to remove the empty plate, then returns with the third course, a Guinea fowl parfait with chutney. 

At length, Jihoon says, “I’m not going to ever share the names of my accomplices from the heist. If that’s something you plan on angling for in the future—you can forget it.”

“Yes, of course,” Seungcheol replies, and from his expression, he knows he’s got the canary. Picking up a fresh fork and knife, he starts on the parfait. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Jihoon takes note of which utensils Seungcheol uses for the parfait, then mimics him.

“And I get to do things my way. I’m not here to be another cog in your machine. Which means—sometimes I make decisions that I don’t run past you, but it’s for the best and you’ll just have to suck it.”

“Goes without saying,” Seungcheol agrees. “You want to do things your own way, that’s fine with me. As long as you keep my interests safe and secure, I’ll happily _suck it.”_

Jihoon almost chokes on nothing.

He isn't sure what shows on his face, but it makes Seungcheol grin.

“So, what’s it going to be?”

Given what he knows about this man so far, Jihoon isn’t making the mistake of taking anything about him at face value no matter how generous an offer he’s making.

But—he’s spent the better part of the last 48 hours under a cloud of apprehension, waiting for the moment Seungcheol would decide to extract his pound of flesh. He may as well settle the debt now and have done with it. “Okay. I’m in.”

Seungcheol grins, delighted. “Will you tell me your name now?”

“No.”

The new smile on Seungcheol’s face is not friendly in the least.

“Why not?” His tone is borderline confrontational.

“You’re used to getting what you want—aren’t you?” Jihoon asks, unimpressed.

Seungcheol brightens inexplicably. “Of course.”

“Well—Too bad.” Jihoon says, raising his chin. “Some things _can’t_ be bought.”

Satisfied, and more than slightly smug, Jihoon leans back in his chair, unable to stop the sly smile from creeping up his face.

“Ya know—,” Seungcheol begins, running his tongue over his bottom front teeth. “I could _make_ you give me your name. I have _ways_.” he says, his voice dangerously soft.

“Is being a spoilt little brat one of them?” Jihoon quips, just to see Seungcheol’s face twist.

But the man’s expression doesn’t morph into the incandescent rage Jihoon expects, it smooths into a detached, blank mask; something more potent and infinitely more dangerous.

Tension gathers in Jihoon's muscles, like some part of his brain is expecting a fight. Any second now the restaurant will empty of people, Seungcheol will nod to the waiter, and someone will garrotte Jihoon with a length of wire. Or something suitably savage.

But Seungcheol doesn’t make an overt gesture. Silence stretches between them for a few moments, and Jihoon flinches at the sudden ‘click’ of Seungcheol’s cutlery hitting the plate.

His experience is telling him: _you’ve gone too far._

His instincts are telling him: _danger; stay the fuck away from this guy_.

His body is telling him—well, Jihoon prefers not to think about it. He must have gotten his wires crossed at some point because he should _not_ be getting turned on right now. 

After a beat spent studying him, Seungcheol says, "You've got balls." And between one blink and the next, the half-realized threat of violence is gone. "I do like that in a guy."

Jihoon snorts.

“However,” Seungcheol interrupts a bit snidely, “It’s hard to have a business arrangement with someone when I don’t know their _name_. How am I to introduce you?”

Jihoon blinks and looks away when he realizes his gaze has been lingering on Seungcheol’s shoulders. “I dunno. Pick something generic. Like Mr X, or Mr Blue. You’re not getting my real name because you haven’t _earned_ it.”

Seungcheol looks insulted. “Haven’t I? I’m paying you a generous sum of money. I gave you my Rolex.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, waving off Seungcheol’s chagrined huff, “Correction: I _stole_ this Rolex, and I’ll be _earning_ that money—so technically you didn’t give me anything.”

Seungcheol pouts—like he’s _five_. He drops his eyes to the table, then back up to meet Jihoon’s. “I’m buying you lunch.”

“You call this lunch? I’m still hungry. Where’s my steak?” Jihoon deadpans, and Seungcheol, evidently taken by surprise, laughs.

It makes him look younger, carefree.

Jihoon doesn’t know whether the dimples, the crinkling in the corners of the eyes and the sudden explosion of overgrown puppy is genuine or exaggerated, but it’s damned effective. 

_Too_ effective.

 _Dammit_ —Jihoon really shouldn’t be getting soft fuzzies for Mafia Kingpins. That’s just ten kinds of unacceptable.

Jihoon presses his lips together, unable to fully suppress his smile. “You may refer to me as Mr Lee. That’s all you’re getting. Any _other_ information about me—you’ll have to earn.”

Seungcheol hums thoughtfully, before conceding. “Fair enough.”

Jihoon’s eyes drop to table, and resists the urge to fiddle with his napkin anxiously. “So, when do I start this _role_?”

“Today.” Seungcheol answers simply, tossing his own napkin down on the table. He gestures to one of the wait staff discreetly that they are finishing up. “If you don’t have prior engagements that is.”

“Oh, uh—no. You were the only thing on my to do list today.”

 _“Was I.”_ Seungcheol drawls, lips curving into a slow smile.

Jihoon registers the double meaning then, and has to force himself not to blush.

“What’s the first order of business?” He asks, steering the conversation to safer waters.

“Shopping.”

“Shopping?” Jihoon asks, feeling his eyebrows climbing up. “Right. And that’s secret code _for_?”

“For _shopping_.” Seungcheol drawls. There is a hint of humour in his voice, some private amusement Jihoon isn't privy to. “We need to get you a suit.”

Jihoon gives him the full-fledged nose-wrinkle-raised-eyebrow look of incredulity that says Seungcheol had sure as hell _better_ be kidding. “Oh, no—I don’t. Suits—I don’t.”

“Oh, yes—you will. Suits—you will.” Seungcheol parrots back.

"I don't think I've got the right build for a suit," Jihoon says, not the least bit wistful.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit, because here is Seungcheol, sitting there with shoulders like an ode to male physique, and Jihoon's not bad-looking nor self-conscious (most of the time), but he's not blind and he's got a mirror, thanks.

“I don’t have the right proportions.” He elaborates at Seungcheol’s annoyingly patient look.

"No, I'm afraid I must stop you right there," Seungcheol says, "you're quite wrong, you see. It's about making whatever proportions you have look better." He looks Jihoon up and down, slow, appreciative. "And yours are quite magnificent as they are."

Jihoon contemplates arguing further, but Seungcheol’s smile is sensuous, exciting and laden with promise and forbidden fruit and Jihoon realises this is one thing he won’t be able to wiggle his way out of.

* * *

“Hey. Hey you—wake up.”

Jun opens his eyes. For a moment, blinking against the early morning light, he isn't sure where he is. Then he turns his head to find man staring at him—a man with dark eyes, jet black hair slanted over his brow, and a warm smile on his face. He’s gorgeous, mysterious—he flicks Jun on the forehead.

"Oh, it’s _you_." Jun says, rubbing the spot with a finger. "Also, ouch."

“Good morning!” His captor says, more jovial than he's got any goddamn right to be, though his eyes _are_ a little bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

“Dude, _please,”_ Jun whines _,_ throwing an arm over his face _, “_ The sun is hardly up yet. I need more sleep.”

“But I’ve got a new _plan_.” His passenger says excitedly.

Jun raises an eyebrow at the man from under his hand, looking mildly entertained.

“Stop the fucking presses! Could it be? Mr Indecisive knows what he wants to do?” He says, voice still heavy with sleep and sarcasm, the latter of which seems to go right over his captor’s head.

“Yep.”

The man looks—smug. Pleased with himself and the world.

It looks good on him.

“Awesome.” Jun grins, giving him a thumbs up, before rolling over onto his side. “Tell me all about it—in three hours.”

“No. Hey!” The man says, shoving at his shoulder. “You’ve slept enough. I need you to start driving again.”

Oh. It’s another one of _those_ days.

Jun turns his head and gives the man his best determined face. In response the man shoves the butt of the gun against Jun’s temple.

After a pause that lasts a second too long, Jun says, “I forgot you had a gun.”

“I thought you had. C’mon—lets hit the road.”

“ _Fine_.” Jun sighs.

He would have liked to say no, would have liked to tell the guy to fuck off. But being pissed at a man with a gun was like being pissed at the weather, which is to say that it requires more energy than it is worth and is, ultimately, pointless.

He shifts upright in his seat and starts toeing on his shoes with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He must be doing it to slow, because he gets another jab in his ribs with the gun.

Yeah, definitely one of those days.

Once they are on the road again, Jun gains back a little of his usual countenance, glancing at his passenger in the rear-view mirror.

“So—where are we going?”

“Daerim-dong.” The man says at length.

“Oh, cool.” Jun says, nodding before he thinks better of it. It takes a moment for the implications to sink in. When they finally _do_ —he swerves a little as he loses his focus, then quickly drags the car back to driving in a straight line. “C-China town?”

His captor meets his gaze in the mirror. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

“No, no, I just….” _Am in possession of a healthy sense of self-preservation—_ Jun doesn’t say.

The problem with new beginnings is that, one way or another, decisions and options are always informed and influenced by the past. And Jun has made a lot of waves in his past life—a lot of enemies. Some of whom may or may not be still residing in Daerim-dong: Seoul’s unofficial China Town.

Jun says nothing for a few beats, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tries to recall the names and faces of people he needs to avoid.

There’s _a lot_ of people.

“ _Do we have to?_ ” He croaks out eventually. “I mean, why do you need to go there?”

“Uhm. Because my cousin lives there.” His captor says, seemingly amused by Jun’s nervous disposition.

“Really? Is your cousin a member of the triads who had his identity stolen for a period of three months in 2016 and ended up losing his wife, his pet peacock and his priceless collection of Ming Dynasty vases as a result and is so imbittered by the experience he’s offered a $2 million dollar reward for the perpetrator to be brought to him dead or alive?”

There is a significant pause from the back seat.

“That’s weirdly specific.” His passenger says, and his eyes are wide in the mirror, like he thinks _Jun_ is the crazy one.

“Answer the question!” Jun snaps.

The guy's mouth, which had been open around a retort, falls shut. He blinks at Jun in astonishment for a second and then, in a much smaller voice, says, “No. Not that I’m aware of. Triads are a little of his league to be honest. He’s a lower class of criminal—backdoor gambling scene kind of thing. We were pretty close growing up, cause we were both the black sheep’s of the family, so I’m hoping he’ll help me out. Even though we didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Hmm.” Jun isn't sure whether he should be amused or take notes for future reference. “Alright. I guess we can go. As long we don’t hang around and meet the _friendly_ locals.”

There’s another long pause from the back seat.

“Are you _familiar_ with the Triads?” His passenger says, sounding cautiously intrigued.

“No—no.” Jun mumbles, concentrating on merging onto the highway. “I just hear they’re a troublesome lot that hold grudges is all.”

His passenger levels him a sceptical look, but thankfully doesn’t pursue the issue.

* * *

As Minghao predicted, Cousin Jackson isn’t happy to see him.

He’s even less thrilled when he sees Minghao’s hostage.

“Who the fuck is this? Your boyfriend.”

It’s Jackson asking the question, looking between Minghao and Jun with mild confusion.

Minghao debates letting him hang on to the pleasant misconception. He eventually decides he's not going to get a better reaction later than he is now, so says, "He’s my hostage.”

“ _Hostage_?” Jackson echoes incredulously.

“Hi, I’m Jun, nice to meet you.” Jun says, stepping forward to shake Jackson’s hand. Seeing as Jackson hadn’t even offered his hand in the first place doesn’t seem to stop Jun from shaking it anyway. 

“I’m also an Uber driver when I’m not being held captive.” Jun says jovially. Stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets, he spares a glance around Jackson's apartment. “Nice place you have here by the way. Do you mind me asking how much the rent is? I saw a for lease sign down the road and I can totally picture myself living around here. If I survive my hostage experience that is.”

Minghao can't decide if he sounds cheerful, sarcastic, psychotic or all of the above, but whatever it is, Minghao wishes he would to tone it down. Jackson’s looking increasingly uncomfortable by his presence, and levels Minghao a look as if to say: _‘What the fuck?’_

“Yes, uhm—funny story. The job I was on went south, and I jumped into the back of this guy’s car. He’s been driving me around since, cause I’m sort of on the run right now.” Minghao puts in, not wanting the situation to be misrepresented.

“From what—" Jackson snaps his mouth shut and gives him a suspicious look. “Please, _please_ tell me you had nothing to do with that bank robbery the other day.”

“You heard about that?” Minghao asks, not hedging so much as assessing Jackson's reaction.

“Of course I heard about it you idiot.” Jackson groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Everyone’s been talking about the raving group of lunatics that tried to rob Choi Seungcheol’s bank. What the fuck possessed you to try and steal from the most ruthless mob boss in the country?”

“Choi Seungcheol?” Minghao glances up.

The name doesn't mean anything to him, but that isn't exactly surprising. At twenty-two, he's been in Korea for less than a year, and while he's been keeping tabs on the goings and comings of the criminal community here for longer than that, there aren't always names attached to the stories of past jobs that get told.

“I have no idea who Choi Seungcheol is, Jackson. I just agreed to the job because I needed money and I was told it was going to be a milk run.”

“A milk run?” Jackson scoffs, “Nothing involving Choi Seungcheol is a milk run.”

Somewhere behind them, Jun pipes in, "Is this the same Choi Seungcheol who owns that Casino Chain? Because if it is, let me tell you—he is _not_ a nice guy. Don’t even _think_ about counting cards at his Casino’s. Not that I would ever do that or anything."

Jackson shoots an irritated look over Minghao's shoulder. “Seriously. Even your _Uber_ driver knows more than you Minghao. This is bad—this is really, really bad. I told you that crew you were running with was bad news, and now Choi Seungcheol has probably got his hounds on your scent. I don’t want them on my doorstep. I don’t _need_ him as an enemy.” He says, already moving past Minghao, towards the door.

He opens it and stands aside, his intention crystal clear: _leave_.

Minghao understands, after everything that has happened, why Jackson would be wary of taking even the slightest risk to compromise what he's gained here, but they’re _family_.

That _has_ to mean something. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Minghao says, the words clawing their way through the block in his throat. “I came to you because I need somewhere to lay low for a while.”

“Lay low? In Seoul?” Jackson asks, his nostrils flaring with disbelief. “Choi Seungcheol owns this city. He has eyes and ears everywhere. There is literally nowhere you can lay low. Not from him.”

“Jackson— _please_. You gotta help me.” Minghao pleads, even though the answer is already all but spelled out.

“Look,” Jackson snaps, but he's lost the sharpest edge of his anger. “We’re family, so I’m not going to rat you out. But it can’t be seen that I’ve helped you either. I got myself to think about and I’m just hoping whoever Choi Seungcheol sends, they overlook that we’re related.”

Minghao grits his teeth, turning to look outside. The endless blue landscape of the cloudless sky does little to calm him. He pushes the anger down; this isn't the time or the place.

“Fine.” He says with lingering ill grace. “Thanks for nothing.”

* * *

“No offence, but your cousin Jackson’s an _ass_. When I move here—I will not be playing friendly neighbours with him and bringing him casseroles.”

Minghao picks at his lower lip absently before speaking. “He did what he had to.”

Jun gives him a sideways look. “Did he? Jesus—your expectations on loyalty are depressing. My family would never hang me out to dry, even after all the trouble I caused them, they still send me jumpers at Christmas.”

They are crossing the road, heading back to where they’d parked the car, when Minghao realizes they are being followed.

Surrounded, more like. One coming up from behind, one across the street, two waiting up ahead. They aren't being subtle about it, and Minghao reconsiders his first thought of being followed. This is an ambush.

"We’re being followed," Minghao says, voice low and tense.

Jun actually takes a moment to look self-conscious, but it passes quickly.

“Where?” He says, his eyes scanning the passers-by, trying to see what Minghao is seeing, but for all his smarts, he’s still just an Uber driver who lacks the training and experience.

Minghao bites the inside of his lip to keep from cursing. "The dude behind us in a leather jacket, the woman across the street wearing jeans and a white blouse, two guys ahead, maroon shirt and a green tee. Pay attention to the body language, the way they stand, what their clothes hide and the way the woman holds her handbag. They're all armed."

To his credit, Jun does not immediately crane his neck to look behind him. He keeps his cool and continues walking. "You think kind Cousin Jackson tipped them off?"

"Does it matter right now?" Minghao whispers harshly. He has an inkling it was, but in the scheme of things, it wouldn't be the worst thing Jackson could have done.

“Okay. So what are we going to do?” Jun murmurs.

Minghao takes a second to think about that; he has a gun, and a knife strapped to his leg. Jun is unarmed. There isn't much he can do without tipping his hand, so Minghao lets the map of Daerim-dong unfold in his mind, the streets around them becoming escape routes.

"We'll see what they want," he says. "It might be nothing. If it's not nothing, you let me handle it, and you run.”

“Uh, how about we _both_ just run?”

Minghao keeps his eyes focused ahead, on Maroon shirt in the distance. “They’re not going to kill us dude. Gunning us down in broad daylight would be exceptionally stupid. They probably just want to talk."

Jun is opening his mouth to say something suitably swaggering in response, when the first gunshot stops him.

In an instant, they both have their hands on one another, tugging each other down behind a stationary car and out of the line of fire. There is screaming, pedestrians running for cover, but Minghao's not sure what _they're_ freaking out about; the bullets clearly aren’t meant for them.

“Fuck,” He hisses, as the next two shots send chips of concrete flying over their heads.

“Looks like they _are_ exceptionally stupid.” Jun says, looking at him sharply.

Carefully, Minghao cranes his neck out, trying to get a location on the shooters and gets nothing for his efforts but a bullet whistling past his head, way too close. “Shit.”

“Well they’re definitely shooting at us.” Jun snarks.

Minghao fumbles in his jacket pocket and shoves the car keys into the Jun’s hands. “Look. Just go—get out of here. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this. I’ll handle it,” He says, and stands up, holding his hands in the air.

“What are you doing?” Jun hisses, dragging him back down again.

“I’m creating a distraction—” Minghao hisses back, sparing him a sideways glance. “So you can get out of here. No sense in us _both_ being killed for something I did.”

Jun seems to think about that for a minute, leant back on his hands looking for all the world like he is sitting somewhere thousands of miles away, and not under the threat of immediate peril.

Minghao knew there was something he liked about him.

“That’s very noble of you and all—but wouldn’t running be better than handing yourself over to these guys?”

“Uhm,” Minghao thinks for a moment. “Yeah. That’s a good idea actually.”

Then he runs for it.

* * *

Minghao’s always wanted a boyfriend.

The problem is that Minghao and relationships do not mix well.

It's not that he's too uncompromising to have one, nor is it because he's repressed or commitment-phobic or high-maintenance. Minghao is just _busy_. A thief’s life is nomadic and Minghao has spent most of his travelling from place to place, working irregular hours and coming home with bruised knuckles and split lips. Boyfriends never seem able to make peace with this. As soon as they realise that Minghao is never around and that work will always comes first for him, they get all clingy and possessive.

Minghao wonders if the fact that his hostage is still keeping pace with him as they run, chased by gunmen, is an early warning sign of ‘clingy’ behaviour. He supposes it would be a little _unfair_ of him to assume so.

“Stop running! They aren’t after you!” Minghao shouts, over the rushing wind.

“Are you nuts? This is a normal day at the office! No sweat!” Jun calls back, as they split apart to run around a streetlamp, dodging startled pedestrians.

Minghao trips on an uneven slab, but before he can faceplant on the pavement, Jun is yanking his arm up and dragging him along. “Kiss the floor later dude.”

They dart down an alleyway, which is dark and narrow and takes them out right by a deserted pedestrian bridge that stretches across the river.

They run halfway across it, pausing in the middle to look behind them, both panting for breath.

Minghao can hear shouting coming from the alley.

“They’re still on us,” he says and is about to run again, but Jun stops him.

“So we switch tactics,” He says, and to Minghao’s alarm, he swings one leg over the railing of the bridge. “We jump.”

Minghao lurches forwards, grabs handfuls of Jun’s jacket and holds on tight, saying, “What the fuck do you think this is? We aren’t Thelma and Louise.”

Jun swings his other leg over the railing and then stands at the edge, looking back at Minghao over his shoulder.

“They'll never suspect we would do anything that stupid. And we can hide under the bridge until they’ve passed. The current’s not that strong. We’ll be fine,” he says, casual, as if they are discussing dinner plans.

“You’re insane.”

Jun’s logic is entirely conditional, full of holes, so Minghao is not really sure why he follows the man over the railings. He's not sure why he stands there beside him and lets Jun grip his hand, or why his heart beats so fast at the sight of the drop below them, when Minghao has been far higher before and barely felt a tremor.

“This is stupid,” Minghao says, but Jun just winks at him.

“That’s right,” He says, and then he jumps, taking Minghao down with him.

They land feet first and the water hits like glass, breaking around them.

Minghao surfaces again in a gasping rush of cold air, then they are swimming together against the current, Jun urging them in the direction of one of the huge stone pillars that hold up the bridge. When they reach it, Minghao forces his wet fingers into the gritty gaps in the brickwork, clinging on. He can still hear shouting, distantly, over the echoing slosh of the water, as the voices pass overhead, heading away from them. They huddle beside one another, drenched and shaking with adrenaline.

“Now what?” Minghao asks, when he has finished coughing and gasping for air.

“We wait until we’re sure that they’ve gone,” Jun says. He sounds a little breathless, laughter lingering in his voice.

 _Insane_ , Minghao reminds himself.

“You’re not really an Uber driver, are you?” Minghao asks after a moment's reflection, not entirely sure if getting into this topic with Jun is a good idea.

“Of course I am.” Jun says, fluttering waterlogged eyelashes at him. “I have a license and everything.”

Minghao shakes his soaking wet fringe out of his face, smirking. “You’re _way_ to chill about this. I’ve been waving a gun in your face since we met and you’ve hardly flinched. And now we’ve just been chased by armed gunmen working for the ‘most ruthless mob boss in Korea’ and you couldn’t care less.”

“Ah—well—I didn’t _always_ used to be an Uber Driver.” Jun admits, and Minghao has no trouble believing it.

Whose car did he jump into? Who _is_ this guy.

Minghao hauls himself a little closer, his hands fumbling clumsily along the wall as he stares at Jun, not quite sure what to think.

“What did you used to be?”

Jun makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat.

“Lots of things, depending on my mood really.” He shoves a hand under the water, into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a wallet, shaking the excess droplets off it. “Today for instance, I think I might enjoy being—Wang Jackson.” He says, flipping the wallet open to reveal an ID card with Jackson’s winning smile.

Minghao stares at it for a long moment, refusing to believe what he is seeing and appalled at the apparent state of his observational skills. How had Jun stolen Jackson’s wallet without him noticing? He looks up, giving Jun a sceptical look.

“When I shook his hand.” Jun explains, flipping the wallet shut and tucking it in Minghao’s front jacket pocket. “I figured he wasn’t going to be much help, so I decided to help myself. Besides, we’re going to need a new identity if we’re going to avoid Choi Seungcheol.”

“We?” Minghao snorts, amused despite himself. “Since when has there been a we?”

Jun affects a pout. “Oh, I see how it is. You just wanted me for my car.”

Minghao laughs, dropping his head to rest on Jun’s shoulder. “You’re unbelievable. You’re crazy. You’re…..”

Just my type, actually.

* * *

By the time Seungcheol’s limousine drops him off outside the boutique, Jihoon has changed his mind again and tries to explain that he really doesn’t need a suit to do his job. Seungcheol just laughs and says he absolutely fucking will if he doesn’t want to look like a criminal on sight, and that he'll be back in a couple of hours.

So here Jihoon stands, about to waste Seungcheol’s credit card in a 'full-service gentleman's boutique', whatever the hell that is.

To make matters worse, he’s not even sure if he wore _underwear_ today.

"Mr. Lee?" a smooth voice from Jihoon's left greets him as he opens the door.

"Um…" Jihoon forgot to look at the card Seungcheol handed him, but he’s pretty sure his own name isn’t on it. “Uh, yeah.”

"My name is Baekhyun, and I will be assisting you today." The man steps out from behind a marble desk and holds out a hand.

His suit looks tailor-made and he's groomed to within an inch of his life. Jihoon feels ridiculously underdressed in ripped jeans, a shirt that was in pretty good shape three years ago but is looking worse for the wear now, and with a mess of oil still ground in under his fingernails from helping Jeonghan change the tires on their bikes last week.

Baekhyun only _just_ manages not to flinch from Jihoon's hand. "Mr Choi called ahead and explained everything," he continues.

"He did—?"

Jihoon doesn’t remember Seungcheol making any kind of calls. And how much exactly does this guy know?

"We’ve worked with Mr Choi in the past,” Baekhyun explains, trying not to look at Jihoon like he is something sticky scraped off the bottom of his shoe and doing a rather shitty job of it. “We’re aware of what he likes. We'll take care of it."

"Right." Jihoon has no idea what that means, but he goes with the flow.

"I think we'll start with the manicure," Baekhyun says, looking pointedly away from Jihoon's hands, "And then we can get the tailor started before you have your facial and haircut."

"My facial?" Jihoon knows that’s something girls have with their friends, so it doesn't sound like something he is all that keen to try.

"Oh, yes." Baekhyun starts towards a black-lacquered door. "Right this way, Mr. Lee."

The manicurist is about four-foot two, even shorter than him, and has the tiniest hands Jihoon has ever seen on a grown woman. He knows she's not a child, though, because it's clear from her face that she's _a hundred and ten years old._

"Sit, sit," she says, and leads him to a black leather chair with wide, high arms.

"This is Mi-Ja," Baekhyun introduces her. "She'll fix you right up." He slips back out the door, leaving Jihoon with the tiny woman.

Mi-Ja settles herself on a wheeled stool, and picks up his hands, examining them and making little tutting noises. "Mechanic," she mutters, "I have just the thing."

Leaving Jihoon to wonder what the hell Seungcheol's gotten him into, she disappears behind a curtain, reappearing a moment later with two glass bowls of bright blue, sudsy water.

"Soak," she says, placing the bowls into little depressions on the chair's arms, and nodding curtly, she adds, "Relax."

The soaking is easy. The relaxing, _not so much._

It takes less time than he'd imagined for the blue liquid to soak away the grime, and when it's done, Mi-Ja wheels back and forth between his hands, scrubbing, clipping, and filing—all of which is much more painful then he'd expected—and then massaging him up to the elbows with a spice-scented lotion, which makes all the pain more than worth it.

“Ohh—you have very pretty hands.” She coos, holding up his wrists for examination. “See—not a mechanic anymore.”

Before he can get properly flustered over that compliment, Baekhyun returns, ushering him out and across the hall into a huge back room just as expansive and sleek as the storefront. 

Baekhyun moves Jihoon toward a mirror and tells him to lift his arms. When he does, a tailor descends on him at once with measuring tape, scribbling numbers onto a little black notebook as he maps him out.

“I’ve never worn a suit before.” Jihoon offers awkwardly, trying to initiate conversation.

Baekhyun only nods, like idle chit chat is beneath him.

"And now for the inseam," The tailor says, and drops to his knees between Jihoon's legs, reaching for his crotch.

"Woah, what?"

Before Jihoon can back off the little platform in fear, the tailor runs a tape down his inseam, muttering to himself.

Next, the tailor drapes fabric next to Jihoon's face, asking his opinion several times but not actually waiting for an answer.

Not that Jihoon _has_ an opinion on fabrics of course. Or tailoring in general. He doesn’t know anything about piped buttonholes versus looped, or wing tip collars verses pinned, and he definitely does not give a fuck about pinstripes or triple-prong cufflinks or pocket squares. He doesn’t understand how a three-piece suit can require a dozen or more separate bits and pieces to make it complete; it's a three-piece suit, surely it should just require three fucking pieces?

In the end, a decision is made for him, since he’s _clearly_ out of his depth.

Jihoon is sure it can only go uphill from there, but when he arrives in the next room, he's greeted by two women who ask him to take his clothes off and lie down with his legs in the air.

"For a facial?"

"And an anal bleach," one of the women says.

Jihoon closes his eyes for a brief moment, looking for strength. 

He is going to _kill_ Seungcheol.

“I am not having my asshole bleached!” He snaps.

He doesn’t care _how_ much money Seungcheol is offering him; some things he just won’t do. And why would he need an anal bleaching anyway? It’s not like Seungcheol’s going to be conducting business with his anu—

Jihoon refuses to finish that thought.

“That’s alright sir, we can skip that step if you like.” One of the women says, a sly smile on her face.

After his facial, Jihoon is passed off to the hairdresser.

“I like my hair the way it is," Jihoon says through teeth still gritted in anger.

"I’ll just tidy it up a little. Nothing drastic, I promise." The man assures.

Jihoon closes his eyes and lets the man go at it, letting himself be soothed by the gentle tugging on his scalp. When he opens them again, he's surprised that he actually likes what the guy did. A lot. He still has his fringe, but it’s neater and slicked back off his forehead.

The hairdresser even gives him a pot of product, and explains with much primping and hand waving how Jihoon can get the _look_. Jihoon isn't convinced, but he'll try. It’s certainly less invasive than anal bleaching.

Finally, it's back to the tailor for the suit fitting where Jihoon is forced into an undershirt for the very first time, and a pair of boxer-briefs so pristine in their _whiteness_ it feels like they belongs in a toothpaste commercial.

He almost flinches when he gets a peek at the price tag. The last time he needed to buy boxers, he went for the ultra basic, scratchy, multipack variety you get at the mega mart. Five bucks a pack _max._ It's just underwear after all, it's perpetually kissing his ass. A single pair should not be costing more than a new _bike._

“Mr Lee?” Baekhyun says.

Jihoon jolts; he’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, feeling out of his depth.

“Sorry, uhm,” he says. “I wasn't paying attention. Did you say something?”

“That we’re ready to get started.” Baekhyun gestures to the rows of clothing that have materialised around them. There are entire racks of pants, jackets, shirts, waistcoats, ties, sweatervests, shoes—

“You do realise I only came for a suit, right?” Jihoon says. “A single suit.”

Baekhyun lifts and eyebrow, patently unimpressed. “Look, _kid,_ you might be new to this ball game, but I've been working with Mr Choi for years; when he says full service, he _means_ full service, and I'm not about to put my reputation on the line by sending one of his boys out there with anything short of a full wardrobe. If you're having second thoughts about agreeing to... _whatever_ it is you've agreed to, take it up with the big guy, but let me finish my work. My only concern is making you look extra fuckable on his arm-”

"We're not..." Jihoon croaks, "Together." 

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, _"Right._ Well, the anal bleaching treatment on your bill says he's got _big plans_ for you. And by plans I mean his dick, and by you I mean your asshole."

Jihoon swallows thickly, "You've got it all wrong. I'm... I'm just going to be his head of security."

Baekhyun cackles at whatever expression is currently on his face, then shoos him over to the first rack of clothing. 

“This can’t be how they’re supposed to fit,” Jihoon says, standing opposite the mirror, watching the way the pants grip his ass so tight he might as well be naked.

The rest of the suit looks good, he has to admit. Not as good as a suit ought to look on a person, not as good as, say, Seungcheol had looked, but not at all bad.

“Non. Parfait,” The Tailor says, ignoring Jihoon and suddenly speaking French for some reason. “One suit is ready á présent. Les autres we will deliver when they have been adjusted. D’accord?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jihoon murmurs distractedly, trying not to give himself an honest to God wedgie as he steps off the platform. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in another mirror and….he's a bit weirded out by how much he likes looking at himself like this, actually.

Seungcheol was right—it’s about highlighting what you have, not what you don’t.

It seems like a lifetime later—even though his pilfered Rolex assures him it's only been three hours— that Jihoon is finally coiffed, primped, manicured, dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit, and ready to walk out the door.

Much to his relief, the card Seungcheol gave him does indeed work, and the eye watering $200,000 charge goes through without a hitch.

* * *

Seungcheol makes sure to time it perfectly when he returns to pick Biker Boy up from his day of adventure at the spa and salon.

There are two good reasons not to keep the guy waiting. The first involves the fact that Seungcheol still can't _quite_ believe he convinced Biker Boy to do this. Why push his luck by making the guy stand around somewhere uncomfortable, probably dressed in a nice suit and feeling irredeemably girly, waiting to be rescued?

The second reason involves Seungcheol's important business meeting with a one Kim Namjoon, that he can’t delay further. 

It's 17:55pm when the limousine pulls up to the brick façade, five minutes before Biker Boy is due to walk out and meet him. He could instruct the driver to pull further forward and stop two feet from the door, but he instructs him to park the car about thirty feet back instead.

It's not far enough to piss Biker Boy off, but it is enough to make Biker Boy come to him.

Seungcheol wants a good view so he can take it _all_ in.

He pours himself a tumbler of scotch and leans back in his seat, comfortable creak of leather as he watches through the window.

He's ready to school his features into his business neutral expression—all the better for keeping Biker Boy calm and with the program—and to keep his inevitable urge to laugh on a secret low simmer.

He's not ready for what he actually _sees_ when the glass of the entry glints and the door opens, because the sight doesn't inspire anything like laughter.

Seungcheol spent an entire afternoon studying Biker Boy’s features—the contours of his face and the line of his back and even imagined what the guy would like in a shoplifted suit and tie (and what he'd look like underneath him in bed, face screwed up in pleasure). But he's still not sure he recognizes the Biker Boy he sees walking in his direction.

No. Not Biker Boy anymore— _Mr Lee._

The suit fits Mr Lee's shoulders and waist like poetry and perfection, and the pants cling just right in a way that's more than a little bit distracting. His hair is a startling change, still nearly as long as it was earlier—but slicked back, sculpted like goddamn _art_.

Seungcheol can't stop staring, the scotch glass almost slips out of his fingers. And from five feet away as Mr Lee finally closes the distance, he looks… is he glowing?

Seungcheol knows his mouth is hanging open and he can’t do a thing about it. Not even as Mr Lee reaches for the handle and opens the car door so he can slide in.

He keeps on staring, wide eyed and breathless (possibly sporting an erection), as Mr Lee slams the door shut and settles back against the leather seat.

For the first time, possibly in his entire life, Seungcheol doesn't know what to say.

“You look—” He coughs, clears his throat, "Gorg-"

“Alright, what the fuck is going on?” Mr Lee interrupts with a snarl, and it's enough to snap Seungcheol out of that weird, tense spot.

"Why on earth would I need my asshole bleached? Are you planning on fucking me or something? Cause that is not something we agreed on, and I don't appreciate being sideswiped into that kind of choice. I agreed to be your head of security Mr Choi, not your fuck toy, and that's how I intend to keep it. But just an FYI, if I _did_ ever agree to spread ass for you, I _won't_ be getting anything bleached first; my asshole is already the sweetest, ripest, peachiest piece of ass you'll ever-."

"Mr Lee!" Seungcheol cuts in, before he can finish that very tempting thought. “I’d like to introduce you to my associate, Kim Namjoon.” He says, gesturing to Namjoon sitting near the front of the limo, a curiously raised eyebrow levelled at them both.

Mr Lee snaps his head to the side, startled by the unexpected presence.

He clenches his fists, face settling into that familiar scowl.

Seungcheol honestly expects a slap in the face, angry yelling, or for Mr Lee to bolt from the now moving limo in rage. Instead, he surprises Seungcheol by taking a deep, mediating breath, plastering a polite smile on his face and leaning across the gap between the seats to offer his hand.

“Nice to meet you Mr Kim. Apologies for the outburst, it’s—uhm, it's my first day on the job.”

Namjoon grins, accepting the headshake readily. “Quite alright. A pleasure to meet you Mr Lee. Seungcheol has told me a lot about you.”

“Has he?” Mr Lee drawls. He meets Seungcheol's eyes, and a frisson of electricity sings briefly in the air between them.

“Oh, yes.” Namjoon says, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Very favourable things.”

Seungcheol can see a hint of wariness in Mr Lee’s eyes, but his previous anger has almost completely vanished.

No slap in the face today—although Seungcheol wouldn’t have minded one, from hands as pretty as those.

“So, shall we get down to business?” Seungcheol says. If his delivery is a little off, maybe the engine turning over can cover it for him.

"Yes," Mr Lee says, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs, and _Jesus_ those pants are tight. "Lets.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is so loosely based on the Call Call Call MV I don't think it's worth mentioning beyond that tbh. Although I have kept them in their respective gangs. Except for the 80's Akira crew or whatever they call it. I can't figure out a way of fitting them into the plot as a gang, so they'll just have to be civilians that get dragged into the chaos.


End file.
